As the Clock Ticks On
by ILoVeWicked
Summary: Panem, California. 1977. Hired enforcer Gale Hawthorne prefers to work alone. Peeta Mellark, a down-on-his-luck private investigator, is just looking to catch a break. In the wake of a mysterious crime, the unlikely duo must join forces in order to find runaway rebel Katniss Everdeen before someone trying to kill her does first. Buddy-cop AU inspired by the film The Nice Guys.
1. Prologue: Wish You Were Here

**Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The Hunger Games_** **, nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film** ** _The Nice Guys._** **All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Warning: The following contains graphic imagery and references to pornography.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Prologue: Wish You Were Here *~*~*~*  
Panem, California - 1977**

* * *

Twelve-year-old Levy Jackson sits impatiently on the edge of his bed, waiting for the clock to strike two. He knows his parents went to sleep hours ago, but he wants to wait to be absolutely certain that they are asleep before he acts on anything. When he looks to the clock on his wall, the minute hand has barely moved from when he last checked. Levy suppresses an inward groan toward the nighttime sky out his bedroom window, as time for him seems to be moving infinitesimally slower than it did during the day, and he can barely keep his eyes open any more.

When the desired hour finally approaches, he springs from the bed with such a ferocity that he nearly stumbles and falls over, which would undoubtedly ruin the whole plan.

Levy makes sure to tip-toe extra quietly as he creeps into his parents' bedroom. His father is snoring loudly as he sleeps on his back, and his mother has her back turned from the door, taking most of the blankets with her.

Checking once more to ensure that both of his parents are sleeping, Levy snaps his fingers. The room remains still and unchanging. Levy cheers silently for this victory before proceeding with his plan.

Levy quickly dives under the bed, careful not to make too much noise. Thrusting his arm out, he feels around until he finds what he is looking for. His heart races with the intensity only a truly daring mission can strike within. It takes several moments to realize, as he begins to creep out of the room, that he has barely breathed once the entire time he was in there.

Once he crosses the threshold of his parents' room with the magazine, Levy lets out a small sigh of relief. The busty blonde woman on the front cover greets him with an inviting smile, her dazzling blue eyes nearly winking at him. She lies upon a bed of cashmere sheets, a token to her namesake. They conceal very little of her exposed body.

The young boy's eyes rake the glossy pages of the magazine, memorizing the curves of breasts and hips and asses until his mouth is as dry as the California heat itself.

When he reaches the centerfold, a low whistle escapes Levy's lips.

He's never thought of sex on a rock in the middle of the ocean until finding his father's secret magazine weeks ago, and now it's all he can dream about. Just as he remembers her from the night before, and the night before that, and many nights before that, the girl of his fantasies has been frozen in her moment of climax as a wave crashes against the boulder.

The long, red hair that cascades down her bare back is dripping wet, while the rest sticks to her shoulders. Eyes closed, she is arching backward, exposing her huge, creamy breasts and pink nipples for all to gaze upon. She appears to be moaning with pleasure, her kissable rosy lips forming an inviting 'O' shape that causes something in Levy's pajama pants to twitch.

Her perfectly manicured fingernails are digging into the chest of the handsome man under her. One of his large hands comes around to grip her perfect fleshy behind while the other is buried her forbidden fruit, the place Levy longs to touch.

Levy has looked at this picture almost every night, but somehow, the sight of Annika Breasta coming always manages to get him off.

 _If only she were real,_ he thinks to himself, as the painful reality of the pornography star's unattainability strikes sorrow in his young, aggressively hormonal heart. He knows he could be a better lover than the infamous Nick O. _The things I would do to her…_

Levy's thoughts are interrupted when the flash of headlights sliding across the _Jetsons_ poster taped to his bedroom wall cause him to jump and shove the magazine under his pillow.

But when the headlights become larger, and closer, instead of fading away, adrenaline pumps through Levy's veins once more.

He climbs to the edge of his bed to stare, wide-eyed, through the window at the terrifying sight that unfolds before him. A bright red Lamborghini looks to have a mind of its own as it veers off the highway and screeches down the forested hill behind his house at full speed.

The car crashes into a tree just several feet from his window, nearly slicing the Lamborghini in half as the metal shapes itself around the unmoving tree's trunk. Levy gasps and, without much thinking, rushes outside to investigate the scene.

Smoke piles high from the engine in plumes that disappear in the overhanging treetops. The headlights flicker, casting treacherous shadows throughout the forest. Levy's concern heightens when the headlights linger on the distinctive outline of a human body sprawled upon the ground, at least half a dozen feet from the site of the collison. Grabbing his flashlight and double-checking to make sure the magazine is well-hidden, should his parents wake, Levy quietly makes his way outside to investigate.

The sounds of broken glass and metal crunch under Levy's sneakers as he tentatively approaches the seemingly lifeless body. But as he gets closer, he notices that the girl who has been propelled from the vehicle is breathing — shallow, final breaths.

He drops his flashlight when he realizes almost instantly that he recognizes the person belonging to the naked, bloody, writhing body. The same crimson hair he longed to comb his fingers through is fanned around her head and matted with something dark and sticky. The same large breasts he had just been ogling over are heaving as the girl gasps desperately for air. She's bleeding and bruised just about everywhere, and as Levy's eyes search her body, he comes up short in trying to find the source of her injuries.

Levy longs to hold her hand, to feel her satiny skin against his touch, or at least to cover her up somehow. But he stays frozen in place, paralyzed in what he must imagine is a nightmare.

There's no way that his wishful thinking brought this upon the woman he was in love with, is there?

He pinches the flesh of his forearm as hard as he possibly can, and it is with horror that Levy finds her still lying on the soil beneath his imposing gaze. She is as real as he had wished her to be just moments ago, almost appearing as if she is posed for her final photo.

Annika Breasta's wide green eyes, even more beautiful than he had conjured up in his head, are skittering everywhere until they meet his. A calm seems to settle over both of them once they make eye contact.

And later, when the police question him the next day, he thinks that maybe he imagined it, but he could have sworn her luscious lips had turned up into a small smile upon noticing him.

One thing, however, was certain. With her dying breath, Levy tells the police, Annika had whispered to him, "If we burn, you burn with us".

* * *

 **A/N: Hello! Hope you enjoyed the first bit of _As the Clock Ticks_ _On,_ my first venture back to writing after a few months and a very turbulent semester. The idea for this came to me while seeing the film _The Nice Guys_ with my sister (a highly recommended watch!), and from how it fed both my affinity with the seventies and my fascination with the thought that Gale and Peeta would make for an excellent buddy cop comedic duo in an alternate universe. While the fic is based off of the major plot points of the movie, I've taken some liberties and adjusted things to better integrate the _Hunger Games_ world. If you're familiar with the film, you know already that this story is loaded with twists, turns, action, and more - and I hope my portrayal (as well as a few of my own twists and turns) to an already great story can bring that to this forum! **

**Please, feel free to leave a review and any feedback you may have, as I would love to hear from you! Thank you for reading!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	2. One: Takin' Care of Business

**Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The Hunger Games_** **, nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film** ** _The Nice Guys._** **All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter One: Takin' Care of Business *~*~*~*  
** **Four Days Later  
**

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

The way I look at it, there are two types of people that get involved in crime. The predator, and the prey. And that's just about the only part of the job that's black and white.

I've been in the business of hunting down predators ever since electing not to graduate high school. You don't need a degree to do what I do. I can't be found in the yellow pages. But if you've got enough trouble with someone, you might ask around for me. Gale Hawthorne.

Mister Cartwright seems to have had enough trouble with his gardener, Brutus. Thinks the guy's been stealing things, but more importantly, that he's been trying some "funny business" with his daughter, Delilah. His words, not mine. If you ask me, the business Brutus is allegedly doing with the fifteen-year-old is very unfunny and very against the law.

He picks Delilah, or Delly, as her friends call her, up in a polished convertible — the kind of car you never want your fifteen-year-old daughter hopping into with a _young_ kid, let alone your adult gardener — right outside of the high school.

I tail his convertible from a safe distance, several cars behind to make sure ol' Brutus doesn't try any "funny business" with the minor he's chosen to bait on the ride home. I follow them all the way to his cushy little Valley house. Of course he has a cushy little Valley house to park the flashy convertible in.

"Jesus," I mutter to myself, ducking behind the wheel as I park on the far end of his street, just in time to watch the guy lead Delly into the house with his hand on the small of her back, dangerously close to her ass. This guy is practically reading out of the fucking Creep Handbook.

It doesn't take much straining to try to hear what they're saying, or rather _doing,_ when I make it to the bushes at the side of his house. The sounds of girlish giggling and lips smacking together make my innards coil. When I peek over the window ledge, I note that they aren't kissing, but rather they're sitting together on his couch, a box of chocolates sitting between them. They take turns feeding morsels to each other.

I swallow the bile that rises in my throat and round the side of the house to Brutus' porch.

"Thanks for the ride and the candies," Delly says, her high-pitched voice laced with the sweetness and innocence of a girl who can't know any better. She's mooning over him, and the lovesick look in her eyes probably comes from all of the worldly possessions and empty promises he's given her her. Stuff he's swiped from her dad anyway.

"Anything for my girl. Now, who's your Daddy?" Brutus purrs, eliciting another giggle from Delly.

It's a stupid fucking question. And I have zero tolerance for stupid questions.

I don't give Delly any time to answer, however, because Brutus has now gone to answer the door, where I am waiting on the other side with my own answer to his stupid fucking question: a swift kick to the balls. The man howls and goes down quickly, doubling over and crying right in his doorway in front of another man and his young prey.

Delly's blue eyes are wide and filled with the terror that comes along with getting caught. I deliver another blow with the foot of my boot to Brutus' stomach.

Looking right at the young girl, I say, "Go home to your Dad, kid. And don't let me catch you with this old creep again, understood?"

Delly hangs her head in shame. I can just about make out a muffled "understood" under the curtain of her curly blonde hair as she swiftly steps over Brutus and practically runs down the street toward home.

"Who the hell are you?" Brutus asks, attempting to stand as he grips onto his sore gonads.

Peering over the dark lenses of my sunglasses, I tell him, "Doesn't matter who I am. Stay away from high school girls."

And with that, I leave. But not before clocking the guy in the jaw for good measure.

When I return to my car, someone is waiting there for me. Instinct kicks in, and like it's as easy as remembering to breathe, I am instantly analyzing everything I can about her. She is a young girl, but certainly older than Delly. Looks to be somewhere in her early to mid-twenties. Tall, thin. Olive-colored skin that reflects the afternoon sun's glaring rays quite nicely. We look like we could be related, with her coloring matching so closely to mine. She continuously checks over her shoulders, fiddling nervously with the end of her long, dark braid as she does so.

As I approach her, I am met with eyes like liquid mercury. Her gaze is calculative and careful, and it holds my attention instantly. She is in control of how this conversation will begin, and she makes that much clear with just a look.

This girl wouldn't take well to being prey, I gather.

"Are you Gale Hawthorne?" she asks once I'm within earshot, and I nod in affirmation. The smile she wears is tight as she extends her hand toward me. "Katniss Everdeen."

I clear my throat in an attempt to stifle my laughter. What I'm about to say next is going to greatly offend her. Then again, I'm not the one who named her after cat food. I'm just trying to get the facts right, here.

"I'm sorry, you're name is Catnip?"

The smile evaporates, as does the hand.

"Kat- _niss_ ," she says petulantly, punching out the syllables to make sure I don't mishear her again.

I hold up my hands in apology and chuckle. I like this girl. She's got spunk.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Everdeen?"

Kat- _niss_ , I quickly learn, isn't very keen on chatter. Wordlessly, she shoves a green sticky note with a name and address scribbled in her looping cursive in the center of my chest.

"I need you to take care of someone for me. He's been watching me walk home, asking my friends questions…it's been going on for days. I've been told you hunt people like that down."

"I do," I answer, taking the note and, without so much as a glance, jamming it into my pocket for later. "For a price."

In similar fashion to the note, she shoves an envelope of crumpled bills into my hands. Those steely eyes practically burn holes right through me as she watches me count out the five hundred in cash.

Well, four hundred ninety-three of the five hundred, at least.

"You're seven dollars short," I inform her. The girl blinks in confusion.

"No, I paid you five hundred…"

"And I counted four hundred ninety-three," I cut her off, thrusting my palm face up toward her as an invitation. I take note of her outfit, a fitted leather jacket and styled bell-bottoms, no doubt all of it designer, and I add, "You look like you can spare seven dollars anyway, Catnip."

"Kat- _niss,"_ Everdeen huffs, taking out her wallet. I grant her the biggest shit-eating grin I can manage as she coughs up the rest of the money. Now who's in control?

"And now we're even. Not to worry, I'll take good care of…" I draw the note from my pocket and try to make out her handwriting. "Peeta Mellark? What the hell kind of a name is that?"

"Just get rid of that creep for me, okay? If he bothers me or any of my friends again within the next week, you will have failed to do your job, and I'll be taking that five hundred _and seven_ back."

"Duly noted. Except you've got one thing wrong, Miss Everdeen."

Her dark eyebrows knit together. "What's that?"

"I never fail at my job. Now, you have a nice day."

She's in her car and speeding in the opposite direction in record time. Great manners for someone can willingly shell out five hundred dollars, really.

With that, I am onto mapping out a route to track down my next predator.

I certainly hope Peeta Mellark likes eating a hearty breakfast, because he'll be getting a mouthful of brass knuckles when the morning comes.

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

Luck is not evenly distributed. God picks favorites and keeps Himself busy by screwing with the rest of us. A lucky person can get used to a lot of good fortune coming their way.

This rule does not apply for the unlucky. They have to make their own luck, which never really works. Because it'll never counterbalance the shit.

The way I see it, the odds are never in favor of the unlucky.

I wake up in my shower, unlit cigarette dangling off of my lower lip and glass of whatever last night's binge consisted of still clutched in my hand. The water has been turned off, but given how sopping wet the suit I still wear is, I can guarantee that it hasn't been off for long.

My answering machine beeps, and through the cloudy haze of my pounding hangover, I finally realize that I have been woken up by the sounds of the phone ringing.

 _"Hi, Peeta. This is your sister Primrose calling to let you know that if you're not up yet, you should be. You have work today. I have a fresh pot of coffee ready to be made — all you have to do is push the button — and some dry clothes should be laid out on your bed. Also, I am calling to remind you that I am almost thirteen-years-old and shouldn't be calling you from a middle school bathroom to remind you of all of this. Have a good day, Peeta. And get up. Now. Love you."_

Groaning a little, I allow my younger sister's message be the motivating force to heave my sorry ass up and out of the bathroom, despite the heavy, soaked clothes and nausea almost dragging me back down.

The coffee does very little for correcting the imbalance in my equilibrium or the headache, but as _luck_ would have it, I make it to the quaint beach front property of Margaret Seaworth in one piece.

Margaret Seaworth is the aunt of the late Annabel "Annie" Cresta, the fading porn star who went by the not-so-subtle pseudonym, Annika Breasta. Annie died in a freak car crash four days ago, but her aunt claims to have seen her niece when she went to pick up a box of Annie's belongings from her home the next morning. Fanatically swears that she saw a woman — 'her Annie' — moving around through the front window.

I don't believe in ghosts. But I do believe that woman in Annie Cresta's house was Katniss Everdeen, who has been conveniently been missing for four days.

But since Margaret hired me to find Annie, and not Katniss, I've been given the impossible task of telling the woman over and over, with dwindling patience, that her niece was most definitely confirmed dead by the Panem Police Department. That, _and_ that she needs new glasses.

I say impossible because every time I try to tell her that there is no way she could have seen her niece, and that it was more likely to have been Katniss in the window, not Annie, the woman bursts into a fit of hysterics and will not let her point go.

And yet, like with most of my elderly, senile clients, I come back every day, covering up my giant failure with improvised little victories that keep her satisfied and me employed.

It's a lousy situation, milking someone's last hope for all it's worth. Years ago, I never would have operated like this. But the money is good, I don't get money from a job like this very often, and old Margaret has a lot of money to shell out. So, as long as she believes that she saw her dead niece and writes me the checks, I'm quite literally buying her time.

Same unfailing smile plastered on her wrinkly face, the old woman is waiting for me at the top of her porch stairs — which look somehow steeper then they did yesterday. Then again, I was sober for work yesterday and climbing stairs wasn't a virtually impossible feat.

"Missus Seaworth…" She sends me a pointed look from behind the thick, fishbowl lenses of her blue-rimmed glasses.

"Peeta, please. Call me Mags," she insists, just like she has insisted every visit prior to this one. The woman is almost annoyingly sweet. No exaggeration here: she baked me brownies yesterday in the time it took to go out for a smoke, that's how sweet of an old lady she is.

The least I can do, if I can't find her already-declared-dead-porn-star niece and have agreed to take her money in the process, is call her what she wants to be called.

"Mags. Sorry about being late. I was actually poring over the paperwork for the case, and…"

My blatant lie stops short when another figure appears behind Mags. He's tall, toned, and way too handsome to be standing on the same porch as me. I find that I'm involuntarily sucking in my gut, puffing out my chest, and wishing I were about five years younger all of the sudden.

"Mister Mellark, I'm Finnick Odair," he says, a charming glint in his eye as he extends his hand toward me. "But I'm better known as Nick O. around these parts. I worked with Annie."

"In porn?" I ask, nose wrinkling.

He frowns a little and stares down his perfectly symmetrical nose at me.

"Adult entertainment is what we prefer to call it, but yes." Finnick Odair places two strong hands on Mags' brittle shoulders and smirks. "Mags here has told me all about how she saw Annie in her old house three days ago, and how you're helping her find her."

Fuck. Shit, fuck, shit.

I can imagine what this must look like to anyone who isn't approaching one hundred years old: a complete scam. This guy's going to know that I've been covering my mistakes with smooth talk for three days now just to swindle more money out of an innocent old woman, and once word gets around, I'll most certainly be out of a job.

Mags conveniently springs to my rescue. Eyes practically knocking the magnifying lenses out of her glasses, she shakes a little as she calls out, "I did! I swear I did! I know I saw my Annie in her house, I just know it!"

I cough, and looking anywhere but at the woman who pleads for her sanity, I explain, "That's what I've been called in for, yes, but I was just about to explain to Missus Seaworth again that I come bearing some bad news. I have reason to believe that the girl Mags claims to have seen is actually Katniss Everdeen, who was reported missing around the same time as your…erm, co-worker's…death. I think the two may have known each other."

Finnick rears back on his heels a little at the information, but at least now he looks like he wants to listen to me and not devour me. I reach into my pocket, where the newspaper clipping of Katniss Everdeen's photo has been resting, and hold it toward the handsome adult entertainer. He squints and leans forward, studying every inch of the grainy photo of the girl.

I'd be lying if I said I haven't looked at the photo a lot myself. The image alone of Miss Everdeen seems to have that effect on people.

"They look similar enough for Mags to mistake one for the other. I think it was Katniss in that house, not Annie."

As it usually goes right around this time of the meeting, Mags goes into full-on naysayer mode. She wags a transparent, disapproving finger in my face and everything.

"You are _wrong,_ Peeta! I didn't see that girl, I saw my niece! My Annie! I know you all think that I am crazy, but I saw Annie! I would recognize her anywhere! She had a blue pin-striped suit on, and she was doing work at her desk…"

Now that the scene has begun drawing attention from the neighbors, Finnick wraps his arms protectively around the hysterical old woman.

"Okay, okay, lets calm down. Why don't we finish this conversation inside?" he suggests. "Mags made cookies."

Of course she did.

Once Mags has been placated, Finnick gets her situated on the couch. Contentedly gnawing on some cookies and watching soap operas, the old cuckoo pays us no attention as Finnick leads me into the kitchen.

He shatters a plate in the sink before I can even take my first bite of steaming, gooey chocolate chip cookie. Maybe Mags isn't the craziest one in this house after all. I stand somewhat corrected as I look over my shoulder at her, unflinching and chuckling to herself despite the commotion just one room over.

"What the hell, man?" I exclaim, clutching my chest in shock and practically choking on cookie crumbs. "What happened to 'let's calm down'?"

He runs his fingers through his bronze hair, which still manages to look good even when he's trying to yank it off his scalp. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Finnick takes several deep breaths — sharp inhalations followed by long, sighing exhalations — before looking from the ceramic shards strewn about Mags' counter to looking right at me.

"I knew she was dead. I mean, that picture they put in the papers of her…with her clothes off and bloody like that…I knew it. I just didn't want to accept it."

Realization dawns on me just as Mags gasps at something that just went down in the television show.

"You were more than co-workers. You loved her."

Finnick nods sadly. "It wasn't always that way at first. We were just doing our jobs. But then, somehow, she crept up on me."

"So you two had been together for a while before the…incident…then?" I don't dare call what happened to this girl an 'accident'. 'Murder' would be much more appropriate given what I've seen and know, but I'm avoiding more broken plates and haven't exactly proven anything yet.

Finally sinking my teeth into one of Mags' heavenly cookies, I begin to rethink the outlook of this case. With _the_ Nick O. assisting me now, I might be able to sink my teeth further into investigating what actually happened on the eve of Annie's death. And then maybe I can actually get some real work other than assisting the psychotic elderly.

"People didn't know Annie like I did. People only saw Annika Breasta…and after her breakdown a few years ago…people said she was fading. But she was the brightest person in the room. Anyone paying attention could see it."

I try to swallow, but cookie doesn't slide easily down a dry throat.

"If you don't mind me asking, what caused the breakdown?" I ask, my tone suggesting that this is all information I need for the investigation. Although, I have to admit, I'm curious. There isn't much on Annika Breasta after the alleged 'hiatus'.

The pornography celebrity shrugs.

"It doesn't take very long to fall apart in this industry. Putting yourself back together…now that's the tough part. After it happened, most people didn't want to work with her. Dismissed her as crazy. Girls only have it so long in the business anyway before their popularity begins to go down; producers were just looking for an excuse at that point. But Annie was so much more than that crap. She was smart, sensitive, funny…I was gonna ask her to marry me, once I got enough money for a ring."

"I'm sorry," I offer. Finnick grants me a small smile of camaraderie in return.

"She saw things people didn't want her to see, you know. She was perceptive like that. Could tell a good person from a bad person in the blink of an eye. You know anyone like that, Mellark?"

I nod, grinning knowingly as I take another bite out of my cookie. There is only one person who I hold to such a standard.

"Yeah, I do. My sister. Prim."

Finnick leans against the counter as he mirrors my reverent expression. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on a trident necklace positioned on his finely chiseled, very exposed, definitely waxed chest. The pendant must have belonged to Annie. Could just as easily belong to him, considering I can make out the distinctive shape of a nipple ring through the white linen of his shirt. The whole get-up is pretty distracting.

"People like that have a hard time in entertainment that thrives off of lies and exploitation. She never wanted to prostitute herself like that. None of us do. We wanted to make art. Hell, we were going to once we both quit at the end of the year…"

Finnick paces nervously. When he speaks, his voice is thick, like he's choking down oncoming sobs. Whether it's for my sake or for keeping up appearances, I can't tell. He's sweet and all, even has the romantics to top it off, but the guy's still a total peacock.

"The news broke me, I think. I was filming in Cancun, with that stupid bimbo they say was going to 'replace her', Cashmere. I wasn't there to stop it — I wasn't _with her._ I can't eat, can't sleep…just knowing that someone out there meant to hurt Annie…it makes me sick."

That's when I take stock of the bags under his eyes, the faded pallor of his skin. The eyes, brimming with tears, that dart nervously around the room. The guy's a bigger wreck than the Lamborghini Annie had been ejected from.

He blames himself. I can tell.

"Then Mags called, telling me that she _saw_ Annie and hired you to find her, and you showed up with that picture of Katniss…"

Mags gasps at the TV again as Finnick's last statement captures my attention. I hold up a hand to stop him.

"Wait, wait, wait…you _know_ Katniss?"

"Y-yeah," Finnick stammers, confused, "She and Annie met a while ago, a little after the whole breakdown incident. Annie joined her protest group to fight the air pollution in Panem. They had talked about making experimental projects together, films mainly, a lot toward the, um, end…"

"Porno films?" I ask through a mouthful of what has to be my third or fourth cookie.

Finnick shoots me a warning look. I don't mean to be crass, especially given how Finnick seems to feel about his profession, but when I hear 'experimental film', my mind's immediately in the gutter.

"More like investigative journalism, really," Finnick clarifies. He considers eating a cookie, but decides against it and wraps his arms around his torso instead.

"And you think they started filming something?"

"Makes sense. That would explain why Katniss was in Annie's house. Whatever they were making, she had to have gone back to look for it."

"You think Annie would get involved in something so…revolutionary?"

"You haven't heard Katniss Everdeen talk about smog. The girl could turn countries against each other if she got hold of a big enough megaphone. Annie bought into every word of it. And her last words, 'If we burn, you burn with us'…sounds an awful lot like a pitch against killing trees, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it does," I say, nodding. The puzzle pieces of this seemingly impossible jigsaw of a correlation between the two women suddenly starts making sense.

"Finny! The television's gone fuzzy again!" Mags shouts from the other room.

"I should go," I say, gathering my things, plus a few cookies for the road. I should make a batch for Prim later. "But you've been extremely helpful today, Finnick. I know it wasn't easy to talk about a lot of that stuff…"

He holds up his hands, peace settling into his sea-green eyes for the first time in the short while I've known him.

"It's the least I could do. Good luck with the investigation…I just hope you can find the fucker who killed her."

"I won't rest until I do."

That's a lie. I won't rest until around six. Then I'll drink myself to oblivion, pass out, and prolong the investigation to get more money out of his dead girlfriend's aunt for yet another day, thus continuing the 'vicious cycle' Prim says I perpetuate.

But I've gained an ally out of Finnick Odair. And as far as finding Katniss Everdeen is concerned, his trust seems pretty valuable.

He signs the check this time. The amount's way too much, considering a porn star did most of the investigative work for me, but there are bills to pay.

"Hey, Mellark?" Finnick calls from the top of the porch just as I'm about to get into the beat up piece of junk I call my car and head home.

"Yeah?"

"Be careful with that Everdeen girl. She's a lot of trouble…and if Annie's death has anything to do with her involvement with Katniss, then I'd start sleeping with two eyes open."

I laugh at this heeded warning, but as I drive toward Greasy Sae's pub to have a celebratory few drinks, I think I must pull that picture of Katniss Everdeen out of my pocket at least a dozen times.

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

According to my word-of-the-day calendar, _equanimity_ is the quality of being calm and even-tempered.

Wish I knew what equanimity felt like.

The address from Katniss leads me to a neighborhood at edge of the city of Panem. I take in the scenery as I drive by. Stray dogs loiter and growl at each other as they dig their noses in rusty trashcans. Babies cry. Beer cans litter the curb and clog the gutters. Car horns blare in the distance. Everyone here keeps their heads down as they walk by, as if even looking like you're in the way of someone else's business could get you into trouble.

It reminds me of the place I grew up. A poor neighborhood called Seam back in Chicago that I wasted no time getting out of a soon as I could. My mom and youngest sister, Posy, still live there — in that cramped little shack with no room to think, let alone live.

I'm gonna get them out of there too, one day. My low-life brothers - Rory, a realtor in Albuquerque, and Vick, assistant manager at a Sears in who-the-fuck-knows where, Montana - have proven to be pretty useless in sending Ma the money she needs to get Posy to college in a few years. So, as it's been since I was a kid, it's become my job to take care of everyone.

I make a mental note to send Ma more money at the end of the week. After raising us four hellions on her own after my drunken bum of a dad up and abandoned us when I was fourteen, one of us owes it to her to get her out of Seam.

Several houses up the road from Mellark's residence, I stop at a red light and watch a young girl with a large book under her arm snaking under the chainlink fence that marks a vacant lot between two houses. She stands out among the dirt around her, with bright blue eyes and long blonde hair that she's fashioned into two long braids. Her shirt is untucked in the back, sticking out over her skirt. With calculative steps, she walks ten paces forward, six to the side, and three diagonally. I almost expect her to bend down and start digging for treasure instead of plopping down and reading the book, but then the light turns green.

She's in my rearview mirror after only a matter of moments, but the image of something so calming, and almost ethereal, amid the dirt of this city manages to imprint itself on me.

It calms me down just enough to almost consider turning around after I've knocked on Peeta Mellark's door.

Almost.

"Who is it?" an agitated voice shouts from inside. It sounds groggy, like I've just interrupted nap time for the son-of-a-bitch.

"Messenger service," I answer.

His door swings open, and my fist comes swinging toward his pretty, sleepy face. I feel the cracking of bones beneath my knuckles, and it's the most satisfying feeling in the world. Perhaps it's a good thing I left my brass knuckles at home. You want to use the right tool for the job, and a breeze could have probably knocked this guy over.

Mellark stumbles backward, gripping his bloody nose and howling obscenities.

"Fuck!" he hisses. "You broke my nose!"

"I've got other tricks too," I inform him as I stalk through the threshold of his home, yanking his arm while he's doubled over in pain and not paying attention. "In fact, you and I are gonna play a game."

Mellark plays the fool. Under his mop of disheveled blonde curls, his eyebrows knit together.

"I think you have the wrong house."

And with that, I use the grip I've got on his arm to hurl him across his living room. He slams against the wall, his limbs comically splayed in every direction.

"The game, Mellark, is called: Shut Up Unless You're Me," I continue, just before kneeing him in the stomach. Mellark groans and rolls onto his side.

"Sounds like fun. I love this game already," he comments sarcastically, wincing in pain.

Unfortunately for him, this breaks the first rule of Shut Up Unless You're Me (which is conveniently 'Shut up, unless you're me'), and this earns him another kick to the shins.

He's been rendered immobile for the moment, just long enough for me to glance over to his side table, where something rather valuable to him rests.

I go over to the table to retrieve the incriminating item, under a stack of mail consisting of bills and catalogues. Mellark raises his hands above his head weakly.

"There's forty bucks in there. Just take it and go."

"That's not what I'm here for, jackass."

I learn just about everything there is to know about this creep from the contents of his cheap, kidskin wallet. Peeta Mellark is in fact unfortunately his legal name. Age twenty-five, just two years younger than me. A Libra born in late September. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Surprising five-foot-six stature. Drives a beat up Cadillac with a nearly expired license. Red Cross member. Diner's club. An old, faded photo of a bunch of people who look just like him.

One fact is surprising, however. I whistle low, waving the wallet in Mellark's direction.

"You're a private investigator?"

Mellark looks like he would rather shoot himself in the eye than answer. But he knows how to play the game now, and knows that refusing to answer will only get more of the shit kicked out of him, so he sighs.

"Yeah, I am."

I take a look around the house. Nice furniture. Pressed wood finishes, plated bronze on the walls. It's well-furnished, and very impressive, given he lives off a P.I.'s salary.

"You can afford all this?"

Touching his tender gut, Mellark hawks up some phlegm and spits. He looks a little green when he spots the blood mixed in with the saliva. "Sure, some months. It's a rental, until we move back into our place; came with the bells and whistles. Look, man, just take whatever you need and go, please."

"Not until I deliver my message," I say, rounding the counter to his pass-through kitchen. A fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies, still steaming on the plate, rests on the kitchen table. I take one and pop the whole thing into my mouth.

Jesus, that's good. Haven't had chocolate chip cookies like that since Ma used to make them when I was growing up.

"By all means," Mellark says, his winded voice dripping with sarcasm, "make yourself at home, Mister…"

"Hawthorne. Gale Hawthorne. I've been sent on behalf Katniss Everdeen."

Now having limped his way to the kitchen, gripping onto the counter for support, Mellark perks up like a puppy dog at the mentioning of Katniss' name. Sicko.

"You saw Katniss Everdeen?"

I scoff at him and turn back to the plate of cookies, debating on whether or not I should take a few for the road.

"Yeah, and Katniss would like to see less of you, so you better stop following her and her friends around and leave her alone…"

The sound of a trigger fashioning itself back into place causes me to whir around, where I face the barrel of a small hand gun. He's reached into his cookie jar and grabbed the secret weapon while my back was turned.

But, of course, knowing what I now know of his occupation…I anticipated this move.

"I can't do that," Mellark says, gun still raised to his eye level, which unfortunately only meets my chest.

Also knowing what I know about his height, I use the oldest trick in the book and swing my foot behind Mellark's legs for a surprise attack. As he goes down, I smack the gun out of his hands. He thuds against the linoleum floor of the dingy kitchen as he lands on his stomach, successfully knocking all of the wind out of him. He starts to crawl toward the gun, but I kick it in the opposite direction away from him just as his fingers brush the cool metal. Mellark curses to himself and bangs his forehead gently against the floor.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to, Mellark," I tell him. It's not a warning, and we're no longer playing nice.

Still towering above his wheezing frame, I swing one leg over his torso and crouch down to grab his dominant arm. Mellark immediately catches wind of what's coming next and tries to squirm from my grasp.

"No," Mellark half demands, half pleads. "No!"

"Stay away from Katniss," I say, my grip on his arm beginning to tighten as I prepare to do damage.

"No!" he grumbles again, still trying to break away. How cute. He has only one word left in his vocabulary.

"When you're talking to your doctor — "

"NO!"

" — tell them you have a spiral fracture — "

"No, no, no…"

"— Deep breath, Mellark."

He doesn't even take a shallow one, he's so busy yammering, trying to get me to stop. Ah, well. Guess some people just don't listen.

 _Crrrrrrrunch_ goes the radius.

My God. He screams like a girl.

Now that I've gotten my point across, I can retire for the night, go back to practicing some equanimity in the privacy and comfort of my own apartment.

I cross paths with the girl from the empty lot, who eyes me curiously as I exit Mellark's house. She's got the book from earlier and a bag of groceries in her arms. By the looks of it, it's pretty heavy for her small frame.

"Who are you?" she inquires. The closer she gets to me, the more I start to take note of her appearance.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Short stature.

She's a Mellark.

"I'm a friend of your…Dad's?"

Her Mellark nose crinkles as she snorts at the apparent error in my estimation.

"Ew. No, Peeta's my brother. You two must be really close." Struggling with the book and heavy brown bag, she volleys the weight of the groceries to her left hip before extending her right arm toward me. "I'm Primrose."

"Gale Hawthorne," I answer, taking her hand. Kid's got a firm handshake. Could probably break her brother's other arm, if she tried.

She reaches into her grocery bag and pulls out a glass bottle. "Want a Yoohoo, Mister Hawthorne?"

Now, it's my turn to laugh, but it's a rather nostalgic laugh. I haven't had a Yoohoo since I was a kid, and I've forgotten what it tastes like, but her kind gesture is just enough to make me miss the sugary, caramel-colored liquid.

"I would love a Yoohoo, thanks."

She hands me the drink and offers me the most effervescent smile with it.

"I'll see you around, Mister Hawthorne!" she says before running off toward the same house where her injured brother waits.

Regardless of her friendly gesture, Primrose unfortunately won't be seeing much of me anymore. Because I don't do friends.

I get in my car, and I don't look back.

* * *

 **A/N: Hi! So, now you've finally gotten some introductions to Gale and Peeta. The versions of these characters here will feel a bit OOC at times, especially with Peeta, but as the story goes on and more is revealed, they will veer closer to _Hunger Games_ canon character and the OOC tendencies will be explained. Thank you so much for the response and traffic on the prologue! Please, continue to let me know what you think! I'm always interested and much more motivated to write when I hear from you all!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	3. Two: Walk on the Wild Side

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger Games_ , nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film _The Nice Guys._ All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Two: Walk On the Wild Side*~*~*~***

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

I live in the apartment building above a sports bar called The Victor. My apartment is small, quiet, empty. Some would say Spartan. That was the word of the day one Wednesday last month. I saved it, thinking it described me well. Downstairs, the bar is rowdy, often crowded with the town's favorite rejects looking to escape their pathetic day-to-day.

Both are owned by the town's oldest, drunkest curmudgeon, Haymitch Abernathy. Also a pretty Spartan man with as much equanimity as a dormant volcano waiting for the right moment to burst. Notorious for low-priced beer and an ability to make grown men cry, he's a regular celebrity around Panem.

Given his reputation, I consider it a miracle that the man gave me this apartment at all, but I think he realized when I paid my rent on time and didn't try with the bullshit of getting to know him in order to score free drinks off of him that I was more bearable than the average tenant — and with that deemed me the closest thing he's got a friend.

It's Friday, and The Victor is practically filled to capacity with those watching the Dodgers game scattered among those looking for a quick transition into not remembering the weekend. On another television, a newscaster gives a smog alert for tomorrow, warning residents of Panem not to engage in any unnecessary exercise until after 6 PM and encouraging commuters to keep their windows rolled up. Judging by the thick crust covering Sunset Boulevard this morning, despite the sun's efforts to burn some of it away, I can see why this is making evening news.

Pushing past some of the patrons, I overhear one guy talking to another about a third topical news headline.

"You hear? They're not ruling out mechanical failure for what drove Annika Bresta off the road the other night," the one drunk man says, pointing at a screen with the dead adult film star's smiling face on it, where another newscast is speculating her death.

The other man clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Shame. She was young. Great knockers, too."

I roll my eyes and push further into the crowd. Haymitch raises a glass and nods at me from behind the bar as I make my way up the stairs to my place with a twelve pack of Yoohoos I had picked up when I deviated from my route home.

Once I reach the top of the stairs, I realize that I am not alone.

Some drunk couple must have stumbled their way up here looking for a less-congested bathroom. The tall, lanky man keeps jiggling the doorknob to my apartment while a much smaller girl orders him to hurry up. I suppress an audible groan.

Her beady eyes are on me the moment I clear my throat. It takes a little longer for him to realize that he and his girlfriend have company, and she has to physically nudge him to get him to divert his attention from the locked door.

"There's no bathroom up here," I inform them, combatting the noise from downstairs. "That's my apartment."

The boy stands, and the girl moseys toward me, swaying a little as she walks.

"Oh," she says, eyes wide, "I didn't know there were apartments up here. Did you, Marvel?"

"No, Clove, I had no idea."

The girl smiles, or at least attempts to. Her mouth looks like more of a crooked line than anything.

"Sorry for the confusion, Mister," she says, her voice dripping with sickly sweet sarcasm before she delivers a roundhouse kick to my stomach.

In an instant, I've been wrestled to the floor. The bottles of Yoohoo explode like glass fireworks as they shatter around me. While Clove keeps me pinned down with impressive strength, she sends the razor-sharp blade of her knife zooming toward me. Marvel shoots the lock right off the door and kicks it in.

They were waiting for me, I realize.

Craning my neck in every possible direction in the nick of time, I intercept the girl's attempted stabs until I can get a good control over her center of gravity. I then manage to push Clove off of me, shoving her against the adjacent wall.

As she scrambles for her knife, I make it through the door with just enough time to deliver a few blows to Marvel, who collapses into my fridge as I welcome him to my home with a nice uppercut to the jaw.

Clove's legs coil around my torso as she attacks me from behind. As I try wrestling her off of me, we both go staggering against the wall opposite Marvel. Clove hits her head and yelps. Several of the vinyls from my collection fall from their cases and break. I sincerely hope it wasn't any of the good ones — the records that belonged to my father. Then I have a _real_ reason to hit the girl.

Small Fry manages to materialize two more knives seemingly out of nowhere. Marvel, meanwhile, reaches into my large aquarium of fish and grabs one by the tail with his bare hands. Wrenching the aquatic animal from the tank, we both watch the fish flop and gasp for air.

The fish torturing proves to be a distraction. With a devilish glint in her eye, Clove takes advantage of my slip up and pins me to the wall by stabbing her knives through my coat sleeves and the plaster. I struggle against the restrictions, slumping against the wall with exhaustion, while she steps back to admire her handiwork.

Marvel throws the fish, now hanging lifelessly from his fingers, at me. He yells "Duck!" only after the slimy, dead body smacks me right in the cheek — which is followed by him laughing like a raging lunatic.

Now that I have been rendered useless and unable to move, Clove delivers a few dizzying blows to my face, chest, stomach, and groin before stalking away to raid just about every drawer in the vicinity. Stars dot my vision, dancing about the room in colorful patterns as I try blinking them away.

"Either of you going to explain why you're here?" I call out to the pair, coughing a little as I do so.

Yanking another helpless fish from the tank, Marvel, still shouting like a banshee and failing to use his inside voice, tosses his head back and has himself a short, clipped laugh.

"Like you don't know," Marvel says, dangling the fish for a moment before tossing it in my face again. It flops around in my lap until it dies, its unblinking eye telling me what I already know.

I have to get ahead of these thugs.

"Where's the girl?" Marvel cries out, now pointing a gun at me instead of a fucking fish. "Where is Katniss Everdeen?"

Who the hell is this girl and why the fuck does she have so many people after her?

"I have no idea where she is," I tell them, and it's the truth. Marvel does't buy this alibi. His hand plunges into the aquarium again, and I add, "Can you knock it off with the fish? You're dirtying the tank, and they sure as hell don't know where she is."

This time, water splashes at me from across the room after Marvel removes his hand and about half the water from the tank as he growls in frustration.

The barrel of his gun pointed to my head, he grumbles threateningly, "Not good enough, Handsome."

"I'm flattered," I joke, trying to adjust myself in a more comfortable position against the wall. Now that the pain of Clove's blows have worn off, everything's falling asleep. Pins and needles travel up and down my legs and arms as the blood rushes from my limbs.

But my mind is hard at work. I've already figured out by flexing my bicep that my arm movements can go undetected under my thick coat, giving me enough wiggle room to break from the knives. Taped to the inside of my lampshade is a hand gun, and the lamp is about three feet away from where I've been supposedly detained.

If I can break out and get to the gun in two seconds, I can get them both out of here. I just need to distract them at the same time somehow…

Clove informs Marvel that she didn't find anything on Katniss in my bedroom, and she calls him in to check for money while she starts working on demolishing the living room. The shrimpy assailant keeps her knife pointed toward me at all times as she and Marvel swap places.

Meanwhile, I feign helplessness.

"Where's Miss Everdeen?" Clove says. Her voice is trained, calm, but her eyes are wild, deadly, and could probably shoot laser beams out of them if she tried hard enough.

I make a show of struggling against my restraints again, grunting for effect. Clove sneers, flashing her teeth like an animal ready to pounce and kill.

"Oh, I see, you're trying to help her. You know, it's too bad you can't help your little friend. Well, we're going to find her…and then we'll take good care of her."

A small, but dangerously sharpened knife digs into the skin at my temple. I feel the warm blood trickle in a trail down my face, dripping from my chin onto the dead fish in my lap, before I feel the sting of the cut. Deep breaths, Hawthorne. Deep breaths. Concentrate.

"But first, we're going to take care of you."

 _You need a distraction,_ the cold, dead eye of the fish screams. _And fast_.

"I don't know where the girl is," I tell her again, keeping my voice even. Equanimity is still the word of the day, after all. "And you're very mistaken. I'm not friends with Miss Everdeen. I don't have very many friends, but I do prefer to make friends over enemies."

As I speak, I look over Clove's shoulder to watch Marvel pick up a small chest that had been pawned off to me by an ex-banker. Originally used to prevent robberies, it's a decoy, left out to give off the impression of someone who leaves their money laying around like a moron. When opened, it sprays a stream of blue dye, which can stain skin for up to a few weeks. Marvel examines the chest, and just as I suspect of the bumbling fish-murderer, he walks right into the trap.

He flips the case open, and sure enough, blue, permanent ink squirts itself all over his face and in his eyes. Marvel hollers in half pain, half stun. Clove whips her head around and lowers her knife at the noise her partner is making.

Giving me just enough time to kick her in the stomach. She flies backward against my couch, and the momentum from the kick sends the knives clattering to the floor as I jerk forward. I'm free.

I've got my gun in my hands in two seconds, exactly according to plan, and shoot dangerously close to Clove and her knife-wielding hand. I'm being too nice by letting her off with a warning, but I'd like to keep this as fair a fight as possible. She shrieks, at a decibel so high I think every dog in town must have gone deaf.

Marvel, still stumbling around in the ink that he's now smeared all over his face (I'd love to have the opportunity to see this idiot again _just_ to take in the satisfaction of his new makeover), trips over Clove and blindly starts shooting his gun at the wall above my head.

"You see, you don't want to be enemies with me," I finish off this dazzling act without a bow, but instead with a kick that knocks the weapons out of both their hands. "And today, you made an enemy. Had you come here and beaten me up, I would have accepted it as part of the job. But you didn't do that. You pissed me off. And now, you have five seconds to leave my home before I kill you."

Of course, I won't really kill them. Not unless I have to. But every victor needs a good speech.

Grabbing Marvel with the hand I haven't most likely broken, Clove staggers toward the door, cursing my rotten name.

"You're going to pay for this," she vows, Marvel echoing her in agreement. "We _will_ find Katniss. And then we're coming for you. Next time, we're not going to be so _generous_."

"Tell your friend that blue doesn't wash off," I say, readying my gun to do some damage if they don't get off my property before my equanimity runs dry and my temper takes over.

They're hustling out of the place after that, but not without me firing another shot at the railing leading back down to let them know I continue to mean business.

Once I'm sure that Blue Face and his little circus act of a cohort have cleared the premises, I turn to assess the damage done to my home. Holes from bullets and knives travel up my wall like ants marching in formation. Drawers are left open, their contents spilled out and scattered. Dead fish, their mouths agape, lay strewn about the shards of my records.

Crouching down, I pick up the bits and pieces of what is left behind of my father. Mint-condition vinyls of legends like Charlie Parker and Buddy Holly — gone, with nothing to remember them by. The way they sounded, or the way I felt when I heard their voices…

Just like the images I have in my head of Pop from when I was a kid. Shattered. Fading as my memory begins imagining better versions of the bum he actually was. A punk needs a father at an age like that. And mine walked out on me. Left me to do the things he couldn't do by making me the man of the house. Forcing me to be hardened by a world that wasn't going to give me jack shit unless I made something out of it, something out of myself.

You can't get too close to anyone. It's only a matter of time before they leave.

I brush the broken records into my trashcan and toss them away with the dead fish. No use for that garbage anymore, anyway. I stopped waiting for him to come back years ago.

Haymitch is declaring that it's last call when I trudge my way down to the bar and sink into a stool. He wordlessly pours me a beer.

"Heard some commotion going on upstairs," he says, brow furrowing in worry. But I know it's out of worry for the establishment and its reputation, and not so much for me. This rat's den is all the guy has. "You destroy anything?"

"Nothing that belongs to you, Old Man," I chide, electing to avoid what some easy repairs on my part can fix and sipping the frothy foam from off the top of the pint. Fuck it, sipping froth won't get me feeling any less shitty than I already do. The rest of the light ale goes down smooth in about three generous gulps.

Haymitch is already prepared with another when I come up for air.

"Who were they?" he asks, now invested in what happened to _me_ now that his precious apartment, for the most part, is safe and sound. "In a hurry to leave for a couple of loiterers that weren't buyin' anything, don't you think?"

I shrug, and as I crinkle my brow, the incision from Clove's knife sends tendrils of pain down my neck. Haymitch waves the dirty rag he's been using to clean glasses in my face.

"By the way, I think you'll need a few stitches for that cut. I'll have Ripper take a good look once she gets off the can."

I hold up my hand in protest. "I'll pass. I don't want anyone with the name Ripper putting needles in my head. Especially if Ripper hangs around with the likes of you, Old Man."

"Fair enough," Haymitch concedes before downing the rest of a drink that a sleeping patron has left unfinished at the end of the bar. "So, dare I ask again, you tall, dark, brooding dead slug…who were they?"

"They were looking for someone I thought I had finished my business with," I respond.

"You make the guy's face blue?"

I laugh a little and nod. Haymitch drinks to that.

"So, they think you have something to do with this…person of interest."

"I guess so. Took care of a P.I. she claimed was bothering her earlier, and these two showed up tonight and fucking jumped me claiming I know where she is now."

"Do you?"

"You know how I handle clients, Haymitch," I say, shooting him a pointed look that tells him he knows damn well how I conduct business, but he's too drunk to remember what I tell him half the time anyway. "I met her yesterday. I have no clue where she is."

"But she's in trouble with those two hunting for her, ain't she?"

Haymitch flips what he calls the 'ugly lights' on, flooding the room with harsh, white light that brings to stubborn bar-goers the biting reality of a night's end. People groan and trip over themselves as they shuffle toward the door.

This conclusion, the first lucid thought the old drunk has had in months, hits me so hard I nearly fall off the stool. I think back to Clove's thinly-veiled threats surrounding the young girl, how much it bothered me to hear other people talk about her like that, and I shudder.

If someone doesn't get to Katniss Everdeen first, those maniacs will. And I care about what happens to her.

"Yeah, guess she is."

Haymitch smirks. He spits into the bottom of a glass before going in with the dirty rag to clean it.

"Alright, Stone Face, any bright ideas as to how to save your damsel in distress?" he says, clearly mocking me as he knows I'm about to break a cardinal rule of my job.

"I'm going to have to go back."

"Well, that's about as helpful as any shot in the dark would be, kid. It's been over twenty-four hours since you saw the girl. You don't even have any idea where she went after talking to you."

He's right. But he's also missing a huge, blonde, broken-armed piece of the puzzle that's going to help me save Katniss Everdeen…that is, if he can be swayed into helping me find her before Clove and Marvel do.

Coercing someone else into working with me violates another personal code of mine. I prefer to work alone. A _Spartan_ man like me works best alone. That's what I've been telling myself since my Pop left. Once you've been in solitude for over a decade, you even get used to the habit of enjoying being alone. Someone else leaves more margin for error, which I can't afford and don't accept.

Everything I've known for the past ten years as an enforcer is against this, but there's no way around it. I can't do this without someone else.

"I think I know someone who might be able to find her."

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

Prim wanted her thirteenth birthday party at the bowling alley. And I was stupid enough to agree to it.

You don't really know regret until you're surrounded by fifteen different girls shouting their shoe sizes at you at the same time. Maggie needs a size eight. Tilly needs shoes from the adult section. Or is that Janie? Rue needs a size five. Am I imagining it, or are they all suddenly named Marigold? There are definitely multiple Marigolds at this party.

Finally, patience wearing dangerously thin, I give up. The cacophony of shrill little girl voices becomes impossible to tolerate.

"JESUS CHRIST, BACK IT UP AND SHUT THE HELL UP!" I yell, loud enough to be heard over all of their bratty little battle cries. I wave my good arm — the one that wasn't crushed into powder by a madman the day before — for good measure.

That gets them real quiet real fast. Prim's cheeks go bright red with embarrassment before she hides her head behind a rack of bowling pins. Shit, I'll have to apologize for that one later.

"You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain, Mister Mellark," Prim's oddly tall friend — I think her name's Brindie…all I know is that her height correlates with how much of a pain in the ass she is — pipes up.

I roll my eyes at the thirteen-year-old and reply, "I wasn't taking it in vain, Brindie. I was taking advantage of a golden opportunity the Lord hath given me to silence you she-heathens."

Brindie stands just several inches taller than I do, which would be humiliating if she weren't so annoying, but her growth spurt has its advantages, as she manages to work wonders for her ability to send intimidating glances down her nose at people.

Scrunching her face up in disapproval, she wastes no time to correct me yet again.

"It's Bristel."

"Alright, just take your size elevens and go bowl," I tell the girl as I hold the shoes above my head for her to grab at an arms length, forgetting her name already.

Jesus, I need a drink.

Once they're all giggling and situated with their shoes, bowling balls, least-drama-inducing lane assignments, and five unreasonably expensive pizzas, I retire to a bathroom stall to find some peace.

I'm about halfway through a riveting article about landscaping a more aesthetically pleasing lawn (Prim's always complaining about how uninviting the rental house looks, so I thought maybe some gardening could help), when the door to the men's room swings open. I nearly swallow the cigarette I've been smoking.

From under the stall door, I watch the scuffed up pair of boots pause briefly in front of my stall for a moment before moving to the next stall over. I hear the other stall's door creak under the intruder's weight, which confirms my suspicion that this person is waiting for me to leave.

My broken radius begins throbbing, and I suddenly remember where I've seen those gross boots before.

"Mellark, it's me. Gale Hawthorne."

Well, I'm a dead man crapping.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Hawthorne says, his low voice rumbling against the cramped bathroom walls. "I just want to ask you a question."

Question, my ass. Last time he came to 'speak' with me, Prim ended up having to drive me to the hospital.

Wrenching my gun from my shirt pocket, I leave no time to prepare for a proper reunion between Hawthorne and myself. Pants and belt still dangling around my ankles, I kick the bathroom door out and use _Better Homes and Gardens Magazine_ to cover my junk.

Hawthorne's hands are up the instant he realizes that the guy he ambushed while on the toilet has his goddamn _gun_ pointed at his big, thick head.

"How stupid do you think I am?" I say, despite how I may look from his point of view. "I have a license to carry, Dumbass! And ever since your little visit, this baby is staying right here with me."

I bring my gun to my shirt pocket, but as I do so, the stall door begins to close.

"Fuck," I mumble, slamming the door open. But as I do so, my cigarette falls from my mouth and into my pants. I wrestle with the smoke at my ankles by shuffling my feet. My one arm repeatedly slams the door open _and_ keeps the gun pointed toward Gale Hawthorne, all while still using my injured arm to keep the magazine in its place. Last thing Hawthorne needs is to see another valuable part of my body he can break.

The antics with the door and the gun and my pants go on for longer than either of us deems necessary, and I finally give up on playing the role of Tough Guy on the Toilet. If he were here to finish me off, he would have done it by now. Hawthorne looks quietly amused by the whole thing. I volley back the most threatening glare a man in my position can offer.

"Don't move," I order, the hand around my gun shaking and betraying my tone. "And look away."

Hawthorne turns his back in the direction of the sinks while I attempt to get my pants on in a timely fashion.

"You know there's a mirror here, right?" he points out, humor laced in his voice.

"Close your eyes!" I demand. I'm not Nick O. Parading around isn't part of my job.

Once we're both decent, I bring Hawthorne out to one of the booths in the bowling alley's restaurant, careful to avoid any screaming teenagers and their unending list of ways to make my life miserable. When the waitress comes by, I order us two vanilla milkshakes and ask her to put them on my friend's tab.

"He's buying," I say to the waitress with a smile, jabbing my finger across the booth to where Hawthorne sits. "Isn't that sweet of him?"

The waitress grunts, finishes off scribbling down the order, and slowly makes her way toward the deserted kitchen. I fold my hands together and grin victoriously at Gale, who simply scowls back. Forget breaking arms. This guy could just look at you and crush you.

"So," I say, getting to the point of his being an uninvited guest at my sister's birthday party, "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mister Hawthorne? Run out of private investigators to pulverize in Panem? Or is it my boyish charm that brought you crawling back?"

Those are jokes, but he either doesn't understand that or just flat-out thinks I'm not funny. His face remains unchanging as I chuckle at my own self-deprecating puns.

Hawthorne shakes his head, as if even he can't fathom how he ended up back in my company.

"Katniss Everdeen," he says, bringing up the name that hasn't left my thoughts in days, "I want to know why you're looking for her."

The waitress comes over and places our milkshakes — or rather, slightly melted scoops of ice cream jammed into a cup — in front of each of us before trudging back to the newspaper she'd been snoozing on.

"You wanna know who hired me?"

"That would answer part of my question, yes."

I watch Hawthorne wearily as he takes his first hesitant sip of ice-cream-in-a-cup, searching him for any signs of a traitor who will use the information to hurt the girl in question in any way.

But then I conveniently remember that the man sitting across from me literally pummeled me because he thought that _I_ was the threat to Katniss, and the alarms in my head shut off.

I suppose I could offer him a discretionary revelation in order to remain in his good graces.

"Margaret Seaworth, okay? Old Lady hired me on Tuesday to find her dead, porn-star niece," I admit, jamming my straw into the somewhat-thawed shake in my hands. "But I have reason to believe the woman Seaworth claims to have seen was actually Katniss, who's somehow connected to Annie's disappearance and knows something the cops don't about her death, I guess. Nick O.—I mean, Finnick Odair, Cresta's boyfriend— basically confirmed that much. That's why I was looking for her. I just want to find her and ask her if she knows anything about what happened, really, so I can confirm for this woman that her niece was killed and finally get a vacation."

"So, you're not trying to harm her?"

Taking serious offense, I guffaw at his accusation. Take her out to a nice steak dinner? Sure. Harm her? No way. Flecks of milkshake fly from my mouth across the table and splatter all over his unmoved expression.

"Me? God, no." Slowly, however, realization begins to dawn on me as the weight of Hawthorne's questions settle in. "Is someone trying to harm her?"

Hawthorne nods solemnly. He reaches up and pushes his dark hair back, revealing a poorly-bandaged gash along his hairline.

"I was visited by two people looking for her last night," he says. "As you can imagine, they weren't so friendly."

"Gee, doesn't it suck to have people drop in unannounced at your home and viciously attack you?" I fire back sarcastically, still bitter about the thick, itchy cast plastered to my healing arm. "I was on the wrestling team in high school, you know. I happened to be pretty damn good at it, too."

"Mellark," Gale interjects with an annoyed huff, "as much as I'd love to sit and talk about you high school glory days - which have clearly passed you by, given how easy it was to pin you down yesterday, we have more important matters to discuss."

He divulges all of the details of his run-in with Marvel and Clove, and I find myself suddenly grateful for making it out of our altercation with just a broken arm and not a blue face. From what it sounds like, these two are a couple of natural born killers.

"Look, some people I've talked to, viable sources, say that you're one of the best P.I.s around. Smart. Good negotiator, can talk your way around just about anything. And stronger than you look — which I admit, was a surprising one to hear considering how badly I busted you up."

While I appreciate the apology and compliments, I'm not sure where he's going with this.

"And what's your point, Hawthorne?"

He checks over both of his shoulders before he leans in. If he's worried about one of the Marigolds wanting in on his master plan, he's sorely mistaken.

"I'm saying that Marvel and Clove's intentions for once they find Katniss seem…grim. Alone, I can't get to her," he says, keeping his head and voice low, "And from the looks of it, it seems like you haven't had much luck, either. But if we put our strengths together and you work with me…"

Hold up. This guy, Mister Hard Ass Scowling Bone-Breaker, wants me, a one-armed, mediocre, nobody private investigator, to assist him in what appears to be a highly dangerous mission to save a mystery girl— a mystery girl, whom I may add, might be linked to a murder — from possible assassins?

My head is spinning by the time I put it all together.

It sounds like a disaster in the making.

"Work with you?" I exclaim, thinking he's gone mad. "Why would I ever agree to work with you?"

"Because, Mellark," Hawthorne answers cooly. After a measured pause and a sip of his milkshake, he reaches into an envelope in his jacket pocket and spreads eight hundred dollars worth of cash out on the table between us. "We both need to find Katniss Everdeen, before someone else who wants to kill her finds her first."

I'll admit, that's a pretty compelling opening statement to the argument he's about to make.

Until I realize that there's got to be a catch.

"Hold on. What's that?" I ask, pointing to the money. I'm skeptical of a man who can carry hundreds in cash around with him, mainly because I've never been one of those men. "Are you paying me off?"

Hawthorne shrugs, like it's no big deal that he magically conjured up two months' rent while I could hardly afford five pizzas for today.

"No, Mellark. I'm not trying to bribe you or anything like that. I found out what your rates are. Four hundred per day, right? I'm paying you up front for two days."

I snort. This guy's a bigger chump than I gave him credit for. Maybe taking his money won't be as hard as I might have thought it would be.

"We're not gonna find her in two days," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "After two days, I would have to walk unless you give me another four hundred."

"Deal," Hawthorne says quickly. As much as I want to gobble up the money like it's my last meal and stuff it into any pocket I can find on my person, I'm still not entirely sold on this partnership yet.

Smiling a little, Gale Hawthorne must be able to sense my hesitation. My self-proclaimed 'partner in crime' goes back to the milkshake and adds, "We could find her in two days, though. She couldn't have gone far in the forty-eight hours since I saw her last."

A pang of something leaden and hot bristles in the back of my throat at the thought of this guy being near Katniss, the girl whose picture alone has managed to drive me insane with constant thoughts that I cannot seem to shake. He's seen her, talked to her...maybe even touched her.

The leaden feeling rises in my throat, spreading like wildfire under my cheeks and behind my eyes. I pinpoint it as my body's basest reaction toward envy, and shove it down before it makes me do something stupid, like hit Hawthorne.

"What's she like?" I ask, trying my hardest to sound nonchalant.

Since he's not one for picking up on jokes, he doesn't seem to detect the not-so-subtle change in my demeanor either, thank God. Hawthorne gives me a look that seems to say he could care less about her personality.

"I don't know. She was tough and all, but the girl doesn't seem like she could make it five miles from this town."

"Oh."

His eyes skirt above my head, and before I can ask him anything else about Katniss, my side of the booth is soon occupied by a bubbly birthday girl with an obvious sugar high running through her system. Giggling to herself as she slides in next to me, Prim's fingers tap against the tabletop twice, followed by her clapping her hands together.

 _"Ba dum, tsss."_

"What's that?" I ask her playfully as I nudge her in the side, earning a laugh from her that could open up the heavens and release angels.

"It looked like you had just delivered one of your very corny jokes, so I was giving you a rim job," Prim explains, all smiles despite the _huge —_ innocent, but _huge —_ blunder in her description of her drumming on the table.

My face and neck instantly feel red-hot, and probably look much worse. Hawthorne nearly chokes on his milkshake, eyes wide and shocked at what he just heard.

Quickly, and with horror, I cover up her error by clarifying for her, Hawthorne, and anyone else within the vicinity that what she meant to say was, "Rimshot! Rimshot…you meant rimshot."

Prim's blonde eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Then what's a —"

"You enjoying your party, Little Duck?" I cut her off and deflect, fearing for the day when I can't avoid questions like that anymore.

Prim smiles and nods.

"Yeah! I think everyone's having fun," she says.

Although I really only care about one girl having fun, I know it's in Prim's nature to be content when the people around her are happy. Ruffling her soft curls, which I have pitifully attempted to style into one of those ridiculous braided crowns with minimal success, I manage to get another one of her laughs out of her. For years, she's been rigidly serious, acting about three times her own age — which probably comes with the territory of having to take care of someone like me half the time.

Shouting across the room and jostling the waitress back to life, I order my sister a milkshake, a burger, and a large order of fries, demanding it all be on the house given that it's her birthday.

My sister looks mortified, and like she so badly wants to object, but there's no hiding the smile behind her blush. She glances across the table, and the smile dissipates. Her blue eyes fill with recognition and anger as she takes in the sight of Hawthorne.

"You're the guy who beat up my brother!" she declares, exasperated. Going against all of the 'manners' she advocates for whenever I'm inebriated in public, she points an accusing finger right in his face.

On one hand, it fills me with pride and joy that my sister will always stand up for me. On the other hand, it's not so reassuring to know that at thirteen years old, my sister still feels the need to fight my battles for me.

Regardless, I take issue with the fact that the story we're going with is that Gale beat me up. Even if it's one hundred percent true…there's got to be a better way to phrase it.

"He didn't beat me up, Prim," I argue, flushed with embarrassment. "He…sucker punched me. Big difference."

"Primrose," Hawthorne pipes up, clearing his throat, "I'm very sorry that I beat the shit out of your brother…at the time, I was just doing my job."

"That's right," I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. "You just get paid to sucker punch people and don't get any enjoyment out of it."

"I never said that I didn't enjoy hearing you scream like a coloratura soprano, Mellark."

"Wait, so you beat people up and charge money for a living?" Prim inquires, picking up what Hawthorne is putting down. Gale nods.

"Sad, isn't it?" I cut in. Me and my bruised ego deserve to at least get my own sister on my side of this now greatly skewed story.

Prim doesn't seem to care very much about sides, however. As it turns out, she has her own agenda to carry out with the enforcer sitting across from her.

"How much would you charge to beat up my friend Bristel?"

"Prim, what the hell?"

Gale leans forward, all-business. "She a big girl, this Bristel?"

The now very annoyed waitress brings Prim's food over, and I shove it toward her as a distraction.

"Look! Fries! Let's eat the fries!"

"She's really tall and _super_ annoying and is always mean to me."

"Why am I paying for her to bowl here, then?"

My sister and the adult bully-for-hire continue to ignore me. Gale Hawthorne, failing to recognize the fact that he is negotiating with a thirteen-year-old girl, _condones_ this by asking, "How much you got, Mellark?"

Prim pulls out a bunch of envelopes, cards from her friends that she's already ripped into. Before I can object to any of this, she counts the bills in her hands and slides them over to Hawthorne.

"Thirty bucks?"

"I can work with that," he says, nodding in mock seriousness. There's an unmistakable glint in his eye that tells me he's getting off on how much his getting along with Prim unnerves me to no end.

Butting in, I swipe the money before Hawthorne can get his smug hands on it and shoot my sister the closest thing I can get to a disapproving glare. Even though Bristel is a brat who deserves to get her ass kicked by a grown man, in my opinion, I cannot afford a lawsuit.

"Alright, that's enough of that. This conversation is over." Turning to Prim, I shove a french fry into her agape mouth and add, "Trust me, that little shit Bristel will get what's coming to her eventually."

Hawthorne polishes off his milkshake and turns his attention back to me.

"So, we're in agreement, then," he essentially makes the decision for me, wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve. "You help me find Katniss, keep her safe from those maniacs…I pay you what's due."

Prim, who was happily content to eat her free meal after the narrowly-averted Bristel attack, suddenly perks up beside me.

"Katniss Everdeen? The girl you think Missus Seaworth saw instead of Annie, Peeta?" Prim inquires, blue eyes wide and curious. I nod, and my all-too-empathic little sister's face suddenly contorts with worry. Maybe I should stop answering when she asks me how work is going. The kid gets too emotionally invested in things she can't fix.

Turning to Hawthorne, she asks, "Do you think she's in trouble, Mister Hawthorne?"

Solemnly, he nods at her.

"Yeah, I think she is."

My brotherly instincts kick in, and I decide that I no longer want Prim listening to anything that may scare her or sufficiently bum her out at her birthday party.

If I get myself involved in this — which, from the sounds of what Hawthorne thinks, I already have — I want to keep her as disassociated with Katniss Everdeen, the deadly duo, and the target that will undoubtedly land on my back after today.

"Prim, you should go back to the party. Be a normal kid for a millisecond," I insist, pressing my full weight against her as I try shoving her from the booth.

Of course, she doesn't budge. Instead, she looks directly at me with that same determined look that gets me out of bed — or the shower, or the couch, or the backyard, etcetera — every morning.

"Are you going to help him find her, Peeta?"

And suddenly, I am trapped between a rock and a hard place — Prim being my rock and the hard place being not wanting another broken limb courtesy of Hawthorne.

The smart thing would be to say no and let Hawthorne commit to this death sentence on his own. The smart thing would be to turn the offer down, take my sister, and get the hell out of Panem. Prim's got a bright future ahead of her, and I'm…a good negotiator. We could find a safer way to make money, and when I'm old, gray, and banking off of security checks, I won't have to worry about anyone connected to Katniss Everdeen coming to harm us for something I never got involved with in the first pace.

It's smart. But everyone at this table knows it isn't the right thing to do.

Sighing, I look from my sister to the quicksilver eyes of my new cohort.

"Fine."

Ten minutes later, I'm ambushed by five girls and a sobbing Bristel. Apparently some big, scary, hulking dude stuck his foot out and tripped her when she was running to the arcade and left the bowling alley without apologizing.

* * *

 **A/N: So now a mission is underway! I know things seem a little slow at the moment, but the action will start to pick up as the investigation goes on. Hopefully you all at least got some enjoyment out of Peeta and Gale's tiff in the bathroom (one of my favorite scenes in the film), because it was a lot of fun to write!**

 **Thank you for continuing to show interest in the story! As always, I would love to hear even more from you, as it gets me updating faster! Please feel free to leave reviews/feedback, or add this to your favs/follows lists!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	4. Three: The Hustle

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger Games_ , nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film _The Nice Guys._ All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Three: The Hustle*~*~*~***

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

I've resigned to another sleepless night of drinking Scotch and watching the news with the volume muted. Annie Cresta's face lights up the screen, followed by soundless footage of Finnick Odair making a statement about her death. The national news is now a high-profile case. One that I've somehow been inextricably linked to.

My mind is racing with thoughts of blue-faced killers and car crashes and sirens and fire, when Prim's screams drag me out of the screams in my head at around four in the morning.

As per routine, I turn off the television, grab the glass of water on the counter, and rush to her bedroom before my legs can even get a chance to wake up.

I swear, no matter how many times I'm subjected to seeing it, I will never get used to the sight of her having a night terror. Eyes shut tightly, she thrashes against the constraints of her sheets and claws at her skin until her nails leave long marks, red and puffy along her porcelain arms and face.

I crouch down at her bedside, where her screaming pierces my eardrums and pounds against my head. The sound of them will remain trapped until morning. Luring her out of her sleep, I comb the sweaty blonde hair out of her eyes and keep my voice low as I attempt to quell her cries.

"Shh, Prim…shhh, it's okay. I'm here. You were just dreaming."

Her eyes begin to flutter open. Wild and unfocused under a layer of welling tears. Her gaze settles on me and she sighs with relief.

I tell her again, "You were dreaming."

"It was me," she says, lip trembling. "I was on fire…"

I grab her shoulders, loosening up when she winces a little at the force of my grip. But sometimes, even I need a reminder that she's here, and she's alive and breathing and safe. It kills me to see her like this, scared beyond comprehension. If I could, I'd take it all away from her, battling all of her demons as well as my own in my sleep, if that's what it would take to get her to rest peacefully through the night.

Shaking her a little, I tell her again, "I know, I know, Little Duck…but you're not. It was a nightmare, Prim. It wasn't real, okay?"

Prim nods, putting on her brave face once again, despite the tears and the shivering that betrays her.

"You wanna play Real or Not Real?" I ask, crawling into a bed that can barely fit a child, let alone a thirteen-year-old girl and her equally emotionally dependent adult brother.

The game was developed to help ease Prim out of panic attacks back when the dreams were far more lucid than they are now. As her doctor, Aurelius, once suggested, in order to help her distinguish the realistic images that her mind has warped and put a shiny filter over due to her trauma, we talk aloud about what's real and not real though a series of questions and answers.

We've been using the technique ever since. The game becomes repetitive, a little tedious, even. But now, I think it has more to do with comfort than actual healing.

"Okay…My name is Primrose Mellark. I'm from Panem, California. I go to Lincoln Middle School. I live with my older brother, Peeta Mellark. He is a private investigator. We live in a rental house, but it won't be forever. Real or not real?"

"Real."

She sits up and wraps her arms around my waist, burrowing her face into the crook of my neck. Although it's a little garbled, I make out her next statement just fine, "I hate the rental house."

I bark out a sharp laugh at that unintentional low blow. Glad that her sense of humor is still in tact in the wee hours of the morning.

Resting my chin on the top of her head, I answer, "Too real."

"Today was my birthday. I'm thirteen."

"Real."

"Peeta and I are alive and safe."

"Real, Prim. I will always keep you safe," I tell her, hugging her closer to me. I mean every word. Prim is all I have in this world…there's no way I'm letting her go.

A stretch of silence goes by, and after a while, I think that she has drifted off to sleep. I'm about to doze off as well, head lolling back against the wall, when a small voice jostles me awake again.

"Peeta, how come I never know if you have nightmares?" Prim's voice is just barely audible, like she's ferociously combatting sleep.

I sigh, a little flustered by the question. She means to ask me if there are ever nights other than the ones where I'm not sleeping at all or too drunk to remember even coming home. Those are the nights I drink to avoid, honestly. I know how unbearable those nightmares can be. Unlike her, I don't scream or thrash. I just come to, paralyzed with terror.

Shrugging, I tell her as much of the truth as I want to burden her with, "I have them, Little Duck. They can get real bad like yours, sometimes."

"You should wake me, then. Sometimes I wake you up two or three times a night," Prim says, putting me before her once again. She's a good kid. I don't deserve her. I could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve her.

"Not necessary, Kiddo. My nightmares are usually about losing you," I say, instantly regretting it when I feel her stiffen in my arms. Placing a kiss on the top of her forehead, now cooled off and salty with dried sweat, I add, "I'm okay once I realize you're here."

She hugs me like she never wants to let me go. I'd be lying if I claimed I wasn't hugging her back just as tightly for the exact same reason.

I think of her, quietly standing behind me to clean up the messes I leave behind. I think of how she's too young to be so mature, and how it's had to be that way because of me. I think of the rental house and how there's silent disdain in her eyes every time she walks through the door. I think of our shared nightmares, why they come and why they won't ever go away.

"Prim, I want to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me. No holds barred. I don't want you to go easy on me just because I'm your brother, okay?"

"Okay," Prim says, yawning.

"Am I a bad person?"

She answers without hesitation, "Yes."

My heart drops into my stomach, and I repeatedly feel like I'm being sucker punched in the gut with each painful beat.

"But you weren't always that way," she adds quickly. Leave it to her to take away injury from the insult, even when half-asleep. "You used to be a good person, before all the drinking and smoking and cursing and lying to people and not trying anymore…"

"Alright, Prim. I get it."

"You still are good, Peeta…but being bad is easier. I think you could be good again. Maybe working with Mister Hawthorne to find Katniss will help you get back on that path…"

"Yeah, maybe," I pretend to agree with her blind optimism, even though the part of me that usually cautions against optimism cautions me against it. A tiger can't change its stripes overnight. An neither can a teenager's hope.

Eventually, she drifts off to a dreamscape without the shiny, not-real images her mind has plagued her with for years.

And I get the pleasure of watching the sun rise until Hawthorne's car pulls into the driveway of the rental home Primrose hates so much.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time I can come home to my sister without having failed her. Maybe I can be good again.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

With the help of the tip from Finnick about Katniss' protest group, Hawthorne and I are directed to the Justice Building the following morning, where Katniss and The Thirteenth District Rebels are supposedly holding a rally.

Much to our vexation, however, when we arrive on the top of the stairs outside of the building five minutes before the protest is supposed to start at nine, there is no sign of Everdeen or her legion of loyal followers.

Hawthorne charismatically whips his sunglasses off and scans the area while I attempt to block out the sun with a hand raised to my squinting eyes like the plebeian I am when standing next to him.

"There's no one here," I comment, breaking Hawthorne's concentrated stare. What he expects to find by glowering at passersby is beyond me. "No Everdeen, and no Thirteenth District. Think she cancelled because someone's after her?"

Hawthore, as usual, ignores me and brings his hard gaze up to the clock at the top of the government building, which is just seconds away from approaching nine o'clock.

"They're here," he says with certainty. "But they're here to make an impression. Just wait, Mellark."

Sure enough, the clock strikes nine, and as the loud, resonating chimes from the Justice Building bell tower ring out, someone emits a four-note whistle. People in the crowd on the stairs begin to put on gas masks. Hands are joined to form a chain of resistance among them. They fall, one by one, as if they have been struck by lightning.

I avoid making eye contact with Hawthorne, anticipating the 'I told you so' written all over his face from the very first protestor who fell.

But to my surprise, when I glance up at him, he's just as shocked as I am. Even he can't believe what we're dealing with: a bunch of whack-job environmentalists and their 'demonstrations'.

With the gas masks now covering most of their faces, it's difficult to figure out which one of these rebels is Katniss Everdeen. It's difficult to decipher if she's even here at all.

So, I do the only logical thing there is to do to speed up the process a little more.

"Katniss? Katniss Everdeen! Katniss, are you here?" I call out to her from the top of the steps. It's followed by a strong _thwap_ on the back of my head.

"Christ, Mellark," he scolds. "You can't just yell and expect to her to run into your arms."

As much as I would secretly love for that to happen, I can see where his argument is coming from. It was never explicitly mentioned, but shouting on the top of the Justice Building stairs in broad daylight isn't necessarily 'undercover'.

"Well, we're not going to find her by _staring_ , Hawthorne," I fire back. Mocking his command from earlier, I add, "Just wait."

Hawthorne rolls his eyes like I'm the embarrassing drunk uncle no one wanted showing up to the party. I've seen that eye roll from Prim a million times. I'm immune to it. I continue to address the crowd until my hardly thought out plan pays off.

"This is very important, we need to speak to Katniss. Does anyone know where Katniss is?"

"We can't talk to you," a muffled voice shouts back.

I look to Gale, who's eyes have widened.

"Who said that? Katniss?"

A girl with frizzy orange hair and almost feral eyes rises and rips her mask off, clearly agitated. She moves nimbly, with stealthy, quiet footwork, over her fallen friends, as to not disturb the peace, and stamps her way toward us. She kind of looks like a —

"Hey, Foxface," Hawthorne takes the words right out of my mouth when he gives the girl a nickname appropriate for her appearance. He's smirking, smitten with himself for obtaining a sense of humor all of the sudden. "Is Katniss here with you?"

"Could you, like, stop yelling? You're interrupting our _silent_ protest," Foxface informs us. In the true fashion of all women who ever speak to me, she cocks her head, juts out a hip, and crosses her arms over her chest, looking like I've just insulted her and her entire family tree by getting her to break the sacred silence.

"Well, it's not _silent_ anymore," I inform her right back, mirroring her rather sassy body language as a sign of truly not giving a shit about her protest. "So, can you, like, calm down and tell us if she's here or not?"

Foxface doesn't answer. Instead, she rebels against Gale and I by putting her mask back on, flipping us the bird, and splaying herself back down on the stairs beside another one of her 'dead' buddies.

Gale mumbles something about this being 'pointless' and starts to stalk away. I, however, am not giving up so easily. I start down the stairs while he hangs back and watches in his usual calm, cool, collected fashion.

"Hey," I say, nudging Foxface in the side with the foot of my shoe. Under the mask, her face contorts in annoyance, but she keeps her eyes screwed shut in her tireless effort to protest during her protest. "Hey, Foxface. We asked you a question. Where's Katniss?"

Another kid to my right lets out a muffled groan and sits up. This guy actually looks intimidating, with a glare that could rival Hawthorne's. I back away from Foxface and offer him a small smile in hopes of reconciliation. Hawthorne snorts.

"Shut the fuck up, man," the young, very muscular guy says, his brown eyes hardening. "We're dead."

"No, you're not," I state the very obvious to the crowd of idiots.

"We're supposed to be dead, okay? Like the birds because of the exhaust emissions polluting our air."

"Fascinating, Sir."

"My name is Thresh."

"Okay, Thresh. That's all very fine and actually really clever, but it doesn't answer our question. Where is Katniss?"

Rolling his eyes, Thresh concedes a little more easily than his comrade, Miss Foxface.

"She's not here, alright? She hasn't been around since Cinna died a few days ago. Now shut up, Old Man."

"Thank you, Thresh. That didn't hurt me or my feelings at all."

While I'm left reeling over the existential crisis of twenty-five being considered 'old', Hawthorne steps in to continue taking advantage of someone paying us any attention and giving us information.

"Cinna?" he probes the hulking protester. "Did he know Katniss?"

"Yeah," Thresh says, "He was a real close friend of Kat's. Helped us pick costumes and stuff for our protest projects."

"What happened to him?" Gale pries.

"He died, man, I don't know how," Thresh repeats, looking at Hawthorne like he's just asked Thresh to explain organic chemistry at the DMV during his lunch hour. "Shame, the guy really had an eye for fashion."

"Can you take us to the house?" Hawthorne asks.

"No, I can't take you anywhere…we have a mission here to fight the real enemy. Peace out, conformists."

Irked, I inform him, "We carpooled here, actually, so…"

"Let it go, Mellark," Hawthorne says, yanking me away from a now fairly riled-up Thresh.

The agitated kid starts to lie back down, but not before I loudly remind him, Foxy, and all of their friends that wearing the gas masks defeats the purpose of them pretending to be dead.

Amid the groans, hisses, and boos from the crowd of the living dead, I speak over them, insistent on getting the last word in edgewise.

"All I'm saying is if you're going to go the performative route, you should at least be factually accurate…"

Gale leads me back up the stairs, most likely to avoid any more turned heads or embarrassment on his part. He ascends the stairs swiftly and two at a time, long legs carrying us at an almost panicked rate.

Pulling me in closer by yanking my broken arm forcefully, Gale grumbles, "Alright, smooth-talker. What's your next move? We need to get one of these idiots to take us to Cinna's place."

I smirk. I'm already one step ahead of him. What Hawthorne doesn't realize is that there is an advantage to us being old, in that I know that it doesn't require much of a song and dance to get anyone between the ages of twelve and twenty to do what you want.

"Hey!" I shout, turning back to the display sprawled all over the Justice Building steps. "Which one of you dead birds wants to make twenty bucks?"

Hawthorne stares, jaw unhinged and expression screaming all kinds of skeptics. I bet that the guy's regretting everything about choosing me as an ally right now.

But sure enough, a hand shoots up.

"We have a volunteer," I declare, triumphantly looking over my shoulder at Gale. "What's your name?"

Said volunteer removes their mask to reveal a man who's even older than us, which is surprising given his company (and also really cramps my theory about today's youth). But I suppose being a rebel knows no limitations. He peers at us from behind thick-rimmed glasses.

"I'm, uh, Beetee," he greets Hawthorne and I, suddenly sheepish as his eyes dart to the pavement below him. "Beetee Latier."

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

As I pull off the highway toward the destination Beetee has directed us to, I listen closely while Mellark strikes up seemingly casual conversation with the man in my back seat. Mellark may play the role of big, bumbling fool, but dammit if he isn't good at getting information out of people when their guard is down.

Beetee graduated from Stanford University with a degree in engineering just a little over sixteen years ago. For his gift in electronics, he spent some time working for some of the country's biggest auto companies, the biggest one being Capitol Vehicles, designing and building parts for newer, more efficient car models.

In his spare time, Beetee studied ways to invent a major amendment to the Clean Air Act, a more fuel-efficient version of a device called a catalytic converter. According to Latier's lengthy explanation, it's supposed to convert toxic gases and pollutants via internal combustion into less toxic emissions through a redox reaction. His version was said to be the greenest of them all, and using it would drastically effect the way in which the car market was going to work.

He has to explain all of that to us three different times before Mellark and I start to understand any of it.

It all sounds like a snooze-fest to me, but Mellark manages to pretend he's genuinely invested in every long, complex word spewing out of the man's mouth.

"But Capitol Vehicles, the ones monopolizing off of their system of oppression and power, don't really like change. When I brought the first prototypes of my model to the Capitol Corporation, they claimed the converter was too expensive and dangerous, accused me of insubordination in the workplace, dismissed me without any severance, and continued with the mass production of those metal death traps they called cars. Not before they made sure I'd never get work in this town again, however. My wife Wiress and I could barely afford to put food on the table for our children after that," Beetee says, bitterness laced in his soft voice.

Mellark's eyebrows furrow in a sympathetic frown. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Beetee shrugs. As he speaks, especially about matters of technology, he becomes nervous and twitchy, fiddling with his ill-fitting glasses and constantly shaking his legs.

"It was a blessing in disguise, I suppose. In my time off from work right after I was fired, I became obsessive with broadcast transmissions as I perfected my model converter. Although it was largely out of spite for the corporation, I was actually able to get a few signals through to some television stations from my home — breaking up your regularly scheduled horse manure from Capitol for some tips about the smog."

"So is that when you joined The Thirteenth District?" Peeta asks.

Beetee nods. "Right after I petitioned with the Environmental Protection Agency and the amendment about the catalytic converter went public earlier this year, I was contacted by the Rebels."

"And what has your involvement with them been like, if you don't mind me asking," Peeta continues as he unbuckles himself and crawls into the backseat with the older man, despite my protests about road safety.

But it works like a charm. Beetee's former uncertain expression has instantly eroded into a brilliant smile following Mellark's move. Mellark mirrors the smile like an artist, using his unmistakable likability and charm to draw information out of Latier like sucking venom from a snake bite.

"Um, well, I was mainly brought on for my tech savvy, particularly in video projections. You see, gentlemen, I also happen to be a projectionist. The Rebels needed someone good with the mechanics of a projector on board for their upcoming film."

I shake my head. He sounds too smart for working for a bunch of do-gooder young people. The guy literally interrupted television broadcasts from his own basement and changed national legislation, but all they needed him for was turning on a projector? Something doesn't add up about that.

My thoughts are interrupted when Beetee instructs me to turn right, where we pull onto a street that looks like any other normal, everyday Panem street.

With the glaring exception of the charred skeleton of a house shattering the image of suburbia before our very eyes, that is.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," I say, thinking aloud for both Mellark and myself. Gesturing toward the house — or lack there of — I cry out, "What the fuck is this shit?"

"Cinna's house," Beetee says matter-of-factly. I could punch the stupid, smart-aleck look right off his face.

"You didn't think to mention to us the house was burnt to a fucking crisp?" I exclaim, the volume of my voice rising with my anger levels.

"You just asked to see the house. I did not realize you were unaware of the state of said house."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mellark calmly puts himself between Beetee and where I've gotten ready to pounce at him from the driver's seat.

"Let's just see what we can find, okay?"

A low, strangled noise escapes Mellark's lips as we evacuate the car and weave under the caution tape surrounding the the scene to assess the damage. Beetee leads the way, assuring us that there are no longer any harmful carbon monoxide emissions in close proximity thanks to a little device he's fashioned out of what I thought was a watch that's strapped to his wrist.

The day is quiet. Barely any cars drive down the street, and the few that do swoosh by in near silence, the sound of their tires against the pavement as calm as ocean surf. It's as if avoiding the sore sight of crumbling, black, wooden pillars and piles upon piles of rubble is easier than acknowledging it. A light wind ripples through the treetops, causing whatever's still upright in the house to creak and groan.

Mellark stands in the middle of the front yard, halfway between approaching the burned building and running back to the car to use it as an escape vehicle. Right now, with the sickly color of his face and unreadable look in his eyes, I get the sense that he's leaning toward the latter.

"Hey, Mellark," I ask, nudging him lightly on the shoulder. "You alright?"

This snaps him out of whatever trance he had just been in, and he smiles, waving me off as he marches toward the house with a new determination in his step.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Let's go see if we can salvage anything in this mess," he says off-handedly. Like it's a rehearsed response he's memorized from rote.

Seeing as he has deemed that conversation over, I don't ask any more questions.

My jaw sets firmly into place, and I clench and unclench my knuckles as we stand among the rubble, scouring for anything that may serves as a usable clue for Katniss' whereabouts. No such luck, as everything's blackened and burned.

"They shot most of the film here," Beetee explains, jamming his hands into his pants pockets. "Cinna was just working on the finishing touches for costumes for the premiere. I was supposed to come by next week to take a look at the reel."

"Since you seemed to know that it happened and just so happened to neglect to tell us, Beetee, do you have any idea how the fire started?" Mellark asks, apparently also still very annoyed with the genius' selective memory.

As Beetee starts talking, I bend down to pick up a handful of soot. I spread my fingers and let the charcoal-colored dust sift in between the cracks, and I can't help but wonder what part of a man's life I have just let slip through my hands.

"With fire, most likely," Beetee conjectures, removing his glasses to scrub away the thin layer of dust that has settled on his lenses from the wind and debris. He isn't being sarcastic. I don't think a guy this literal could even begin to understand sarcasm.

"Along with his visionary eye for color and meaning, Cinna was known for his special effects. Rumor had it he had designed a dress for Katniss that looked like it was on fire. My best guess is that something could have caught fire while he was experimenting with some of the pyrotechnics."

Beetee's information tells us two things. One, that the project Mellark says Annie, Katniss, and now Cinna had been working on was completed and ready for the genius projectionist. And two, that it has been burnt to a crisp in the same fire that killed the former costume desginer.

I look over my shoulder and exchange a knowing glance with Mellark. Our worst fear since arriving on this burial ground for our case has essentially been confirmed.

'"So, the film…" I start, voice trailing off where the dreaded blank must be filled.

"Cinna couldn't even make it out alive, so the chances that we are currently standing in the remains of that footage is highly plausible. The fire cost him his life, and his life's work. Kind of makes you think, doesn't it?"

"Not really," I deadpan from across the wreckage, where I slowly begin to simmer. Hopefully, I won't boil over by the time the day is through.

Mellark, looking like all the strength in his wobbly knees has given out, hisses, "Fuck!" to himself before he stumbles out to the curb. He sits and buries his head in his hands.

Understanding that Mellark needs his alone time to deal with this news, plus whatever it is that has him shaking in his boots about being here in the first place, I leave him be. Beetee, however intelligent he may be, misses this cue entirely and nervously makes his way back over to Mellark's hunched over figure.

"May I have another twenty bucks for this information and go now?" Beetee asks. "Technically, all you wanted me to do for the original twenty was to get you to Cinna's house, which I did. So…"

"Shut up, Nuts 'n' Volts," Mellark grumbles, nearly pushing the frail older man to the ground as he suddenly stands. I think he's just being a horrible sport until he shouts at an unsuspecting kid riding his bike down the block.

"Hey! You!" The tires screech against the pavement as the kid brakes his bike to a halt and points lamely at himself. "Yeah, you. The only other person on this street. What's your name?"

"Darius," the boy responds as he dismounts the bike and rolls it across the street with him. "What's it to ya?"

The kid in question looks a little older than Prim, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, with a wild smattering of freckles covering his pasty white cheeks that compliment the messy red mop of hair atop his head.

"Think you could help us out, Darius?" Mellark questions the young boy.

"Sure, I can." Darius flashes us cunning a smile, revealing some missing teeth, "For five bucks."

"Fuck no," Mellark counters eloquently.

Darius shrugs. If he has any real bargaining chips, he keeps them close and hidden.

"Then I guess I can't help ya. Five bucks or you can blow," he spits, with all the smug integrity of a teenager who knows he's duped over the adult.

Although he groans and looks like he could smack the kid, Mellark reaches into his wallet and shells out a five dollar bill.

"There's more where that came from if your information is good, kid," Mellark says, and suddenly Darius is standing at attention.

"So, you do have money," Latier observes over Mellark's shoulder, his tone accusatory.

"Shut up," Mellark and I chorus. Nuts 'n' Volts backs off.

We turn our attention back to the kid, who's now laughing to himself as he dissects a slug on the concrete with the heel of his sneaker. Mellark clears his throat and points over his shoulder at what remains of Cinna's house.

"You know the guy who lived here?"

"Yeah," Darius says. When Mellark gives him a look that seems to ask for more, Darius shrugs. He answered the question, like we asked him to. But now he has communicated with us nonverbally that he won't speak up unless we pay up.

Grumbling to himself, Mellark fishes out fifteen more dollars, rounding out Beetee's desired twenty, and jams it all into Darius' greedy palm.

"Twenty dollars for twenty minutes of your time. No more bullshit one-word answers and being withholding for shits and giggles, understand?" Mellark says in an authoritative tone.

Now content with his payment, Darius finally concedes.

"Alright, well, the guy was a weirdo. Wore make-up and flashy clothing all the time. My dad says he was probably a homosexual, but you know how it is these days…everyone's fuckin' everyone now."

Suddenly, some idea switches on in his transparent teenage head. Darius waves an impish finger in the space between Mellark and I.

"Say, are you two fuckin' each other?"

I answer with a quick, resounding, "Hell, no" while Mellark jeers that I'm "Not his type".

"You sure you ain't a coupla nudey-film guys too? You want me to whip my dick out? It's big."

While I avert my eyes, Mellak groans, "No one wants to see your dick, kid. Just tell us what you know, and keep it in your pants, okay?"

Darius waggles his eyebrows suggestively, clearly beginning to regain the upper hand on a now-frazzled Mellark. I offer him a look that informs him he ought to start thinking better of any more offensive jokes about anyone, living or dead's, sexuality, and Darisu suddenly shrinks back.

"Well, lotta people seemed to think Cinna was bad news 'cause of his costumes and how he made them for pornos…"

"Do you know if they filmed pornography here?" I ask, confirming what Beetee had claimed earlier about the project, which was undoubtedly linked to the adult entertainment industry, being shot on these ruined grounds.

"Sure, they filmed here. Everyone knew it," Darius says, like it's as normal as having a neighbor who barbecues in the summer. "Which is why a lotta people stayed quiet when the place exploded outta nowhere few days ago — cops say it seemed pre-meditated. Houses don't explode outta nowhere. My dad says it's 'cause what Cinna was doin' with them films is illegal. I mean, it was obvious. With all the cameras comin' in and outta the place and the girls he brought round here all the time…"

Mellark's suddenly been given a second wind, and like a fire's burning under his ass, he grabs a picture of Katniss Everdeen from his pocket, asking Darius if he's seen her.

"You two don't let a guy finish a sentence, do ya? Sure, she's one of the girls. That broad was here yesterday, snooping 'round this place like you lovebirds."

Peeta's eyebrows rocket skyward. "This girl was _here_ yesterday?"

"Yeah," Darius affirms, pointing to the grainy school picture of Katniss, "That's her alright. I asked her if she'd be my New Year's kiss this year, but she chewed me out for that one. Girl's a real spitfire, ain't she?"

Laughing and recalling our brief, but terse, interaction just several days ago, I nod along with Darius.

"Wouldn't know," Mellark grumbles.

He glances at the picture of Everdeen for just a second longer than necessary before jamming it into his pocket. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I just got a glimpse into Mellark's 'type'.

"Do you have any idea where that girl went after you talked to her?" I ask Darius, keeping my gaze trained on his punk ass should he try anything right when we need him most.

The kid kicks at the half a slug he's been mutilating for the past fifteen minutes and gives my question deep, considerable thought.

"Uhm…I think she was with some big honky-tonk from L.A. Seemed like he was giving her the money for whatever she was lookin' for in this dump."

Okay, Darius. Now we're getting somewhere.

"And that honky-tonk's name?"

Darius squeezes his eyes shut, tapping his chin with his finger as he tries in vain to remember a name. Suddenly, he's given up entirely.

"Would ya look at that? My twenty minutes are up. Unless you got more cash for me…" Darius bats his red eyelashes at Mellark, who twists away in disgust.

"Aw, come on, kid. Just tell us what his name was. I know you know, you shit-for-brains," Mellark hisses at the smug little bastard, who just cackles as he taps the kick-stop on his bike and starts rolling down the hill.

We both start calling for him to come back, like we're his strung out parents. God, I feel sorry for the actual saps that have to deal with this fucker on a daily basis.

"You got a crush on me, huh? You boys sure you don't wanna see my dick?" Darius calls over his shoulder.

Mellark throws his remaining pack of cigarettes at the asshole, clocking him right in the back of the head. Darius loses his balance and tips over, spilling his gangly limbs all over the curb.

" _That_ ," Mellark sighs with frustration, pointing a damning finger toward Darius. " _That_ is what I have to look forward to. Prim coming home, telling me she's dating one of the Dariuses of the world. Kids these days..."

The sentiment makes me want to get a vasectomy and never have children.

"Plutarch Heavensbee," Beetee says suddenly. Mellark and I jump. Guess we both forgot old Nuts 'n' Volts was still around. "That's who the kid was referring to. He's a big producer, notorious in the pornography industry. And from what I remember, he's the film's financier."

Knowing that this valuable information for our next step comes with a price, Mellark's readily reaching into his wallet for some sort of compensation for Beetee, despite Darius having run him dry.

"Where can we find Heavensbee?" I step in between them, handing Beetee a crisp one hundred dollar bill. Mellark rolls his eyes, and I'm sure he's silently cursing great imbalance seemingly working against him once again.

"Why, at his home, of course," Beetee exclaims. "His mansion is where he throws his wildly lavish parties almost every night. All of the big names in porn — some even in Hollywood — come out. They usually have a theme. Tonight's party is in honor of Annika, the poor, mad girl…"

Beetee says some more about the one mansion party he attended, but I've tuned him out as I begin to think about the contents of my sparse closet. Same five white undershirts, some printed button-downs. Leather jacket. I may have dress pants somewhere, if I look hard enough.

Mellark starts reading my whirring mind. His jaw slackens and his blue eyes fill with silent dread.

"Gale, no…"

"Go home and get your best clothes on, Mellark —"

"Please don't make me do this. I hate —"

"— Because we're going to a party."

* * *

 **A/N: And the plot thickens! Lot of information this chapter, but hopefully you all enjoyed nonetheless. A lot will happen in the next chapter, so stay tuned!**

 **In the meantime, please keep sending me your feedback! I appreciate any and all faves, follows, and especially reviews. It helps me make things better when I know what's working, and likewise, what needs more work. Thanks again!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	5. Four: Night Fever

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film The Nice Guys. All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Four: Night Fever *~*~*~***

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

Plutarch Heavensbee's mansion, also known as the Palace by common dwellers, is as big as it is loud. Located in the hills of Hollywood and towering at four stories high, the place is very hard to miss.

Just as Beetee described, everything is done at a lavish one hundred and ten percent. Psychedelic lights of just about every color flash and flicker against the white front of the giant estate. I feel like I'm staring into a giant kaleidoscope that keeps spinning and changing.

At the other end of the giant walkway leading to the Palace's backyard, a stage with funky, live Motown music invigorates a wild, writhing crowd on the balcony. From where I park the car, I can just about make out the vivacious cheers of the evening's colorful emcee, clad in all royal blue from head to toe, wig included, announcing that Earth, Wind, & Fire is next in the line up.

Earth, Wind & Fire is just _here_. At a party for the porn industry. Who the hell is this Heavensbee character and just how much money does he actually have?

Guests arrive all around us in hoards, dressed to the nines — scratch that, to the nineteens — in ostentatious costumes made of sequins, feathers, and very little else.

Hawthorne and I exit my convertible in the best our closets could offer, but we still manage to look severely underdressed.

"All this for Annie Cresta's final opus?" I mutter, craning my neck as I stare up at the neon lights strewn in the trees above me while I fiddle with my keys to give to the valet.

A horse-drawn chariot, carrying two waving, scantily-clad gladiators gallops by, and would have barreled us over had we not jumped to either side of the road in the nick of time. Immediately, I scrap my tie. Following my lead, Hawthorne undoes the buttons on his shirt, stopping just before his navel. If we have a prayer of fitting in here, we have to look less like narcs and more like nymphos.

"Guess so," Hawthorne says, still exasperated from nearly being clobbered by a couple of recluse Romans.

Chins up and smiles on, Hawthorne and I are just about to embark on undoubtedly the weirdest night of our lives when one of the golden-swimwear-clad valets informs me of a mysterious sound coming from my trunk. As I approach the car, the rhythmic, insistent thumps of someone looking to break free can be heard.

Groaning, I scrub a hand over my tired face and stomp over to pop open the trunk of my Cadillac, where a certain nosy blonde teenager who can't follow directions has folded herself up to fit into the cramped cabin and hitchhike with her brother to L.A.

"I know what you're going to say," Prim starts, putting on her best smile to appeal to my weaker resolves. "But since I'm already here, you might as well take me in with you, right?"

At first, I don't answer her. I'm too angry to answer her. She shouldn't be here. We both know that much.

Yanking the stowaway out of my car, I toss my keys to the valet and drag Prim over to where Hawthorne waits. As we walk, Prim takes in her sleazy surroundings. These people are just several hundred of the reasons why she shouldn't be here. Her blue eyes grow wide as saucers.

"Peeta, there's, like, _whores_ here and stuff," Prim whispers to me.

And suddenly, my voice has returned to me.

"I've told you before, Little Duck, don't say 'and stuff'. Just say, 'Peeta, there are whores here'. Gets the point across quicker," I tell her gruffly, still holding her by the back of her neck just in case she should get any more bright ideas and try to deliberately disobey me again.

After a moment of heated silence, I cannot contain my disappointment any longer.

"What the hell are you doing here, Prim? You know you're supposed to be staying with Rue, like I told you to earlier…not tagging along in the trunk of my car!"

"But I thought I could help —"

"You could have helped me by staying home, Primrose. There's a reason for my wanting you to stay in Panem, and I think you must have elected to forget it. I'm supposed to be doing my job, and I can't do that with you here."

She has no idea what kind of danger she is up against by being in a crowded place where I'm supposed to be working and can't protect her at all times. A crowded place where a girl with a mounting criminal record and all of her hot pursuits will be doesn't necessarily scream kid-friendly. Prim is my family. The person I need to protect.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Prim eyes me with disdain, and thus a total lack of understanding the dire circumstances she's just inserted herself into. I swear, she must think she's thirty, and not thirteen, sometimes.

"Sure you can! You won't even notice me!" Staring at the ground, she kicks a colorful stepping stone with her scuffed sneaker. "It's not like you notice me ever, anyway."

It's a devastating blow, one I know she didn't want to have to use on me unless she felt she had to. Prim's not one for guilt trips. But the way in which she uses this tactic against me hurts, especially because of how wrong she is about me, about how much I care about her.

I change my mind. I'm not angry anymore. I'm fucking furious.

Turning to another valet, I ask for him to call a cab for my sister.

Immediately, Prim is crying out against it.

"No! I'm here now. You may as well just let me help you find Katniss! Please, Peeta, I think I can find her if you just _let me help you_ ," Prim insists, wriggling against my grasp.

Hawthorne watches on, quietly perplexed by my struggle. He's used to worrying for one. He can't empathize with the crippling anxiety that comes with looking out for someone other than himself.

The taxi door shuts in my little sister's face with a satisfying thump. Prim eyes me scornfully from behind the tinted cab window.

"Peeta, c'mon!" she cries.

I instruct the driver to drop her off at Rue's home address, and wave goodbye to her scowling face as the bright yellow cab brings her back to safety.

We've barely made it through the door before I down three flutes of something pink and fizzy in hopes to forget the look of utter betrayal in Prim's eyes. An attendant tells me that what I've just ingested is a drink that is specifically designed to induce vomit in order to go on eating all night long. I spend the first twenty minutes of our investigation puking my brains out in an otherwise pristine bathroom.

* * *

 _ **((Gale))**_

While Mellark proceeds to lose his breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the bathroom, I scan the area of the penthouse floor for any sign of Katniss. Between all of the masqueraders, shabby decorum, and people painted to look like wall art, I come up short.

I try calling out to her, but it's no use. The Earth, Wind, & Fire has the entire party on its feet, sashaying and hopping around to the beat of their catchy music. Many faces pass me by, some of which I recognize but cannot put a name to. Celebrities I haven't cared enough to keep up with, maybe even some of which were friends with Annie Cresta. Well, Plutarch certainly swims in some extensive social circles, that's for sure.

A very pale, drained Mellark returns, wiping his mouth on his arm-cast. Even in his state of post-purging, his first inclination is to tell me about how the bathroom walls are completely covered in mirrors.

"Have you ever seen hundred of copies of your own reflection at the same time? Because that shit is very trippy, Hawthorne. I'm still dizzy thinking about it…"

He looks like he's going to blow chucks again, right on the printed rug. I stabilize him before his swaying can get any worse. Luckily, the smooth stylings of Earth, Wind, & Fire distract him. Soon, he's dancing among the crowd, like he hasn't got a care in the world.

"Mellark," I have to strain my voice, shouting to be heard over the music and the screams of one of the hottest bands of today's fans. We're not here for the free concert.

"Mellark!"

"WHAT?" He notes that I've begun to move away from him and asks, "Where are you going?"

"I think this will work better if we split up."

Feigning offense, Mellark rears back on his heels. "Wow, that's really insensitive."

"Just do it, Wise-Ass. We'll cover more ground that way. You search outside for any information on Katniss, and I'll try to see what I can find indoors."

Mellark nods in affirmation, and before I can add anything else, he's following a cocktail waitress with a silver platter of shots. He disappears in a sea of bobbing heads and towering hats.

And now it's my job to wade these eclectic waters in order to find the girl who lit a fire and is now leaving everyone in her hot trail.

I am unsuccessful with getting most of the party-goers to pause in order to speak with me. For many people, it seems, they fear as if pausing for even just a moment will stop their world from spinning happily around the axis of blissful ignorance.

I'm handed a chalice filled with a sickeningly sweet concoction of what tastes like about four or five different fruity drinks just thrown together. The stench of it alone makes me want to barf like Mellark. I'm flanked by the two buxom, scantily clad brunette twins I've been trying to ask about Katniss without much luck, as they urge me to tip back the chalice and forget about my troubles. Coiling their legs and arms seductively around me, the Leeg sisters threaten to stick by my side all night if I don't polish off the whole damn concoction right in front of them, and as enticing as that sounds, I have a job to do.

Gently, I let the sisters down and place the full chalice on a table — at least I think it's a table until it starts moving.

What I had previously assumed to be a golden coffee table shaped like a tiger is suddenly sprouting limbs and staring at me with cosmetically-altered feline eyes. The contortionist shoots me a smile through the stripes painted on her face, baring life-like sharpened teeth, before taking on a new position of a tiger roaring and ready to pounce.

The Leeg sisters start laughing, until their laughter is stifled by their lips meeting. And I stand there and watch their tongues wrestle and entwine, like I'm under some sort of spell.

Where the hell am I?

"Excuse me," a soft voice pipes up, flitting over the music like a harmony of its own, "Did you say you were looking for Katniss Everdeen?"

I turn around, and I am instantly met with the bluest pair of eyes I have ever seen. She is petite and slight, but looks old enough to be close to my age. She is skinny, but looks like she can afford to eat. Her loose blonde curls are tied back with a pink ribbon, and a modestly-cut white linen dress hugs her curvaceous figure in all the right ways.

She looks like she belongs here less than I do.

She's unlike anyone at this party. Maybe even this planet.

"Nice dress," I compliment her dumbly. Her manicured fingers immediately go to fiddle with the hem of the dress' skirt. Oh, God. I can't read her expression. Did she take that as an insult? Because I certainly meant it as a compliment…Jesus, I sound like Mellark right now. Babbling away like an idiot…

Just as I start tripping over words in my head and getting my tongue tied before I can even open my mouth, her pink lips are twisting into a brilliant smile — which thankfully doesn't show off any razor-sharp teeth.

"Well, I wanted to look good if I was going to the Palace…but I think I'm still horribly underdressed," she says, batting her long, luscious eyelashes at me. Everything she does is quiet, but confident. And it's very endearing, compared to every other woman who has thrown herself at me tonight.

"You're in good company with me, then," I tell her, slowly gaining back the footing that she has knocked me off of ever since that first look.

My vision blurs and the pit of my stomach radiates with warmth. I may as well have drank that entire fruit cocktail from hell, I feel so drunk.

Her dazzling eyes skitter from my spit-shined shoes to my unkempt hair, and then, with another intoxicating smile, she extends her hand toward me.

"I'm Madge Undersee. And I'm looking for my cousin, Katniss."

* * *

 _ **((Peeta))**_

The fact that this place has an open bar was exciting about three drinks ago. Now, I'm seeing double, staggering around for balance, and fighting the urge to sing along to Earth, Wind & Fire.

All while trying to put Prim out of my mind.

Plutarch's giant recreational pool, which takes up most of his outdoor terrace, juts out over the hill, giving swimmers a perfect view of the entire Valley. In homage to Annie's most infamous photo with Finnick, half-naked mermaids occupy the water.

"Welcome, welcome, to the Palace's Seventy-Fourth Soiree of the Summer!" the emcee bellows. His blue eyebrows seem to dance around on his face, he's that animated of a host. Or maybe I'm that drunk of a party-goer.

"I'm your Master of Ceremonies for the evening, Ceasar Flickerman!" The crowd goes wild as Caesar continues to taunt and tantalize them at the same time. "Are you ready for the next act? I don't think you're ready…let me hear it if YOU. ARE. READY!"

Another scream ripples through the crowd, and my hands fly to cover my ringing ears. With seventy-four of these 'soirees' alone this summer, it's no wonder California experiences so many earthquakes.

Flashing his pearly whites, a stark contrast against his fake, orange tan, the peacock with the microphone shouts, "Please, join me, your host Caesar Flickerman, in welcoming The Sex Pistols to the stage!"

While everyone around me goes absolutely bonkers as the hot new band on the rock and roll scene rushes onstage, the commotion melts into a dull roar and my entire focus is on the pool.

Where a beautiful mermaid beckons me to join her in the water.

She spies me ogling at her and giggles, surprisingly realistic tail emerging and slapping back down into the pool joyously. The mermaid's long hair, like strands of gold, floats around her exposed shoulders. I lick my lips as I take in the tops of her breasts, peaking above the water's edge like buoys calling me out to the deep end.

A long, dainty finger unravels toward me before she coils it back in her direction in perhaps the sexiest invitation I have ever received in my short life.

All too soon, she disappears under the water's surface with another girlish giggle, leaving me no choice but to dive into the water after her and obey her command.

The jolt of being submerged completely in cold water manages to sober me up a little. I realize I've made a huge mistake in drawing too much attention to myself and failing to recall how little I can actually swim. Above me, on dry land, I can make out muffled shrieks and hear the swishes of mermaids trying to escape my blind grasp while I struggle with not drowning.

Eventually, instinct kicks in and manages to pull me up, up, up toward salvation. I am sputtering as I break the water's surface, flailing and desperately blinking the chlorine water out of my eyes.

"Why, I have never! Where are your manners, young man?" the mermaid of my previous fantasies chides me before my breaths can even out once more. She plants her hands on her mermaid-tail hips, unintentionally offering me a perfect view of her naked upper half.

But between the booze slowing down my system and my near-dance with death in the shallow end of this pool, I'd be more turned on by the sight of a hot cup of coffee at this point. I immediately play back this rather pathetic thought that I've just had while swimming in a pool of half-naked, beautiful mermaids, and I surmise that I am a disgrace to mankind.

Thankfully, someone comes swimming to my rescue before her mermaid friend — who I'm now just realizing I only _imagined_ inviting me for a swim in my compromised state — can chew me out any more.

"Shit, Effie, calm your tits. Literally," the girl orders her golden-haired mermaid friend before she gets the opportunity to plunge me back down underwater for my lack of decency. Chocolate brown eyes flashing, the younger mermaid grins wickedly as she sizes me up in the spot where I've been wading to stay afloat with one look.

"Like what you see, Blondie?" she asks, her tone mocking as she glides forward in the water, pushing her own body dangerously close to mine. "You can look all you want. But touching isn't what we're being paid for tonight, right, Effie?"

The girl looks to her cohort for backup, but the blonde mermaid has distanced herself from her friend's display of sexual torture and is still huffing about how classless today's youth can be.

I avert my eyes, despite every carnal fiber in my body fighting against it. I have a younger sister. I may be a guy — a guy who could really use this, given how long it's been since I last slept with a girl — but I wasn't raised to be the guy who uses his dick to his advantage.

This game goes on for a while. The rambunctious young woman with the mermaid tail and wild glint in her eye follows me around the pool while I dodge her advances. Finally, I make it to the ladder leading to the exit, climb to safety, and attempt to ring my clothes out. Trapped in the water for the evening, she concedes and slumps against the pool's edge with a huff.

"Damn. You're one of the, like, three men with respect left in Hollywood, aren't ya?" she muses. Then, sardonic laughter spills from her lips. "And here I thought you were a perv because you went jumping after tail-in-a-twist Trinket, of all people."

"I heard that, Johanna!" Effie's shrill cry comes from across the pool.

"I'm really sorry about that. I must have lost my balance and fallen in…I'm supposed to be looking for someone, but I keep finding the alcohol instead," I explain, spinning the story a bit and making sure that my voice is loud enough for Effie to hear the apology over the sounds of The Sex Pistols' guitars. "You ladies don't happen to know anything about Katniss Everdeen, do you?"

Eyes practically rolling into the back of her head, the mermaid named Johanna groans and ducks her head back under the water. When she returns, she's simmering. She runs her fingers through her short, wet hair, tugging at it in frustration.

"Of course, you're looking for Everdeen. Aren't they all?"

"So you know her?" I can gather that much by the way Johanna's tail swishes in disapproval.

"Yeah, I know her. Who doesn't know Plutarch's new little prodigy around here?" Johanna scoffs bitterly.

She beckons a bartender over and has him hand me another drink, which I reflexively grab and start to down. I don't even want the fucking thing, I just take it like a trained animal would perform a trick.

"I take it you don't like her very much," I say, hissing a little as the warm cinnamon-flavored whiskey snakes down my throat and rekindles the dying flame in my stomach.

"She's a little hard to swallow," Johanna answers, perverse sense of humor causing her to smirk as she says it. Then, after a considered pause, she motions for me to sit on the edge of the pool, dangle my feet in the water and relax for a bit.

She also keeps ordering me drinks, claiming that if she can't get wasted tonight, someone ought to. And like some silly landlubber trapped under a mermaid's spell from the fairy tales in Prim's old bedtime stories, I willingly comply to all of it.

Because this woman _finally_ might have some answers.

"So, tell me, Blondie…what is it you wanna know about the Voice of Rebellion?"

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

In a secluded corner, far away from the noise and showmanship, I spend what feels like countless hours getting to know Madge Undersee and learning about her relationship with her cousin, Katniss.

Their family history is a complexly woven web of politics, scandal, and money. She's the Mayor of Panem's daughter, and his sister is Katniss' mother. While Madge's father married Lillian Donner of the prestigious Donner family in a perfect arrangement to gain inheritance into the oil trade, Katinss' mother fell for a poor coal miner, Silas Everdeen. Falling for Silas was unplanned, and so was the baby that came just five months after their wedding. Known for being one of the more outspoken miners, Silas Everdeen believed strongly in environmental conservatism and instilled this into Katniss from a very young age, thus creating a rift between the two families.

Madge studied Political Science in school, like her father wanted her to. Katniss was the squeaky wheel, the free spirit, and despite encouragement from her family, she refused to go to college to study any sort of trade.

Growing up, although it was clear that they had very little in common, Madge and Katniss remained friends and would spend their days together. In high school, Katniss was somewhat of an outcast, and according to Madge, she would sit with her every day because she had no one else.

"We never really said much to each other those years, but family is family. We looked out for each other," Madge says, sipping tentatively at her drink. "Things changed when I returned from school, however."

"How so?" I ask.

"Well, for one thing, her father died in a horrible car accident during my sophomore year at Swarthmore five years ago. It was finals week, but I flew home as soon as I could. At the funeral, something inside Katniss had changed, like a switch had been flipped inside of her. All she could talk about was how corrupt the justice system was, and how cars were killing everything…it was like she had gotten her voice back in her quest to fulfill her father's mission to save the planet.

"After that, Katniss got into all kinds of trouble. Her name was showing up in tabloids just about everywhere, with that protest group of hers. And then she met Plutarch this year, and he seemed to take an interest to her. That's when started hanging around with this crowd. The Katniss I had grown up with wasn't recognizable anymore. When she wasn't off picketing or front lining riots or getting photographed at these parties, she would call me in the middle of the night, rattling off wild conspiracy theories about her great cause to end the smog. When she went missing, this was the first place I thought to look…"

She suddenly becomes too worked up to go on, and the levis that have been holding back her tears break through those beautiful pools of blue.

Jesus. Even when she's crying, face pinched together and ruddy like it is now, she's breathtaking.

"I'm just worried about her. Katniss is the closest thing I have to a best friend. She's family. I don't know what kind of business she's gotten involved with these—these rebels—but I just want to find her, and make sure she's safe…that's all I want. I'm scared that she's in danger, and she's going to hurt herself, or worse…"

My hand is reaching out and my thumbs are wiping those tears away before my mind can even catch up. Madge blinks, eyes widening at the gesture. Her sobs slowly come down to soft hiccups.

"Madge, listen to me. I will do whatever it takes to bring her back safely. You understand? I won't let anything happen to your cousin."

I can't bring myself to say anything else, for fear that someone hidden in the swarms around us could be listening in. But with all the emotion I can muster in one look, I ask her to trust me.

Sniffling, Madge nods.

"I'm sorry," she says, wiping a few straggling tears away wistfully. "I don't know what came over me just then. I don't lose my composure like that, especially in front of someone I just met…but I swear I know you from somewhere. I can't explain it, but I feel like we've met before…"

That's impossible. The chances of me ever crossing into any of her high class paths is about as likely as Haymitch sobering up. She probably has me mistaken for someone smarter, richer.

Besides, I would remember if I met her. I wouldn't be able to get her out of my head.

And then, the gnawing hunger that's been burning inside of me from the moment I laid eyes on her takes over. I answer her senseless apology by pressing my lips to hers instead of answering with words. Words were never really my forte.

At first, her mouth is frozen, shocked by my forward gesture. I feel the sharp intake of her breath as she gasps. But then the soft pillows of her lips, a little sticky from her lipgloss and the alcohol, slant against mine as she deepens the kiss. Her arms wrap around my neck, fingers tangling themselves in my hair. My hands land on her hips, drawing her closer toward me…and the rock hard tent in my pants that wasted absolutely no time before showing up to the party.

When we come up for air, electricity sparks in her blue eyes.

"Do you want to find a room somewhere?" she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively and voice husky.

Her answer comes when I pin her against the wall for another kiss.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Giggling like schoolchildren, Madge leads the way as we weave through crowded hallways and ornately-dressed people/human furniture (I'm not ruling either out since my incident with the Tigeress table). Every room we try is either locked or occupied with others who had our bright idea first.

In one room that we peak into, however, the heady moans of a aren't coming in real-time. A group of people watch an adult film intently, as if it were an Academy Award winner. They all take part in complimenting each other or offering constructive criticism. I even recognize the film's star among the bunch, a platinum blonde covered in gaudy gems, and realize that most of the people in this room were involved in the film's making and are looking for feedback from the rest of the bunch.

Among that bunch is Primrose Mellark.

"Prim?"

Her blue eyes, wide and guilty, look more shocked to see me than they should.

"Oh, hey, Mister Hawthorne!" she pipes up, trying her best to look casual despite the nerves rolling off of her in hot waves. She's about as subtle as a stampede.

"I thought your brother sent you home. I swear I saw you get in a taxi earlier," I say, just barely feigning confusion. If she wants to play the 'Let's act like it's alright that she's here' game, then I'll bite. "What are you doing?"

"She's watching my movie," the blonde actress at her side purrs, eyeing me like I may as well be edible. "You wanna watch with us, Big Boy?"

"No, thanks. I shouldn't be here, and neither should this young lady."

Prim shrugs, over-doing it for the sake of feigning her pure innocence.

"Oh yeah, you see, about that…the driver got lost, and we were just going around in circles, so I told him to just take me back here, but I've been having trouble finding Peeta. I found Glimmer in here while I was looking for him and she needed some advice on her acting…"

The perky porn star next to her and the other brightly-colored Palace guests nod along to the story in agreement. The smooth-talking works on just about everyone else.

But I'm not everyone else.

"Clearly, because pornographic acting is your area of expertise," I say, shooting her a look that tells her I know better than to buy into the bullshit excuse that she accidentally ended back up here. "Peeta doesn't want you here, Prim."

"Peeta doesn't want to admit that I'm useful in finding Katniss," Prim counters. "But Glimmer says she may have seen her earlier, and…"

"Primrose, you should call a cab and go home. I'm serious. I don't care what this…Glitter — "

"Glimmer," the porn actress corrects me as she sips brazenly at a cosmopolitan. She swirls her tongue around the top of the straw before suckling on it in a way that suggests more than it actually transports her drink. Performing at all times, even when off-camera.

"Whatever. Even if you think you may or may not have seen Everdeen, you can't be by yourself at this party."

Before she can protest, I reach into my pocket, take Prim's hand, open her closed fist, and jam whatever spare change I can find into her palm. Her blue eyes watch me with scorn.

"I know I can help you," she says, with all the stubbornness of her brother.

"Go home, Prim."

I do not have time to make sure she keeps up on that demand, however. Someone grabs my arm and pulls me down the hall. My kidnapper corners me and closes the space between us with a mind-numbing kiss.

"I found us a room," Madge whispers, nibbling my earlobe with her teeth as her hot breath hits the side of my face. "Let's go, _Big Boy_."

I go weak in the knees and forget where I am.

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

Johanna gets me good and wasted while divulging her secrets of the porn industry. Effie swims back and forth behind her, 'tsk'-ing in disapproval at her loudmouth friend and the investigator who interrogates her between drunk belches.

"You see, Blondie, the life cycle of a porn star is shorter than a fruit fly's. Girls come to Hollywood looking to be actresses, or they just run away because they're bored and fucking hate their claustrophobic small towns."

"I'm guessing you fall into the latter category," I venture, salvaging the last of the copper-colored droplets at the bottom of my glass as I tip it toward my dry lips.

Johanna nods.

"Smarter than you look, Blondie. And these girls…they aren't good enough, or attractive enough, or well-connected enough. They don't know that, but the people who run this industry can sniff girls like that out from miles away. They find work in porn, and if they're any good at getting people to notice them, they last for three, four months in the major films and magazines. Tops. Once your shelf life expires, you're either addicted to the glitz and glamour, like it's a drug, or you're too scared to go home. Or a sick combination of both. So you end up doing amateur work and dressing like a fucking sea creature until you're in your thirties just to make a living."

My brain feels as soaked with alcohol as my clothes are actually soaked with pool water. Absorbing all of this information is difficult to keep track of, especially when the woman feeding you the information has so much to fucking say.

When my mind re-focuses, I note that Johanna suddenly appears crestfallen. Maybe talking about these secrets aloud didn't have the gratifying effect she had hoped for, and she's just now realizing how shitty the hand of cards she's been dealt is. Can't say I blame her. Hell, I have that realization every day.

"I'm sorry," I eventually manage to squeak out.

"No one tells you that you're getting screwed when you sign up to be a part of this industry. The deal is supposed to be that if you do one film, you've got a easier pass to the real work. But that rarely ever happens. You're stuck, and you have to pay for your dumb fucking mistake. And nobody's looking out for you. They're just looking for who or what can make them the most money out here. Fuck them, really, and fuck anyone who has anything to do with them."

"So why put up with it, then?" I slur. "What makes Plutarch different from all the other show-runners?"

Johanna lowers herself deeper into the pool. Her lips skim the water's surface. It's enough to tell me that what I'm about to hear is a _major_ secret.

"Because Plutarch Heavensbee is playing by a different set of rules. Sure, he's got _Pornochhio_ to pay the bills and keep up the ridiculous charade, but for the select handful of us he's tapped on the shoulder, it's much bigger than all of that. When you work with Plutarch, you're making a difference. He's going to make our work _matter,_ " Johanna answers, her voice low and heavy with the weight of the philosophy's seduction.

At the other end of the pool, Effie and a flock of topless mermaids giggle, batting their eyes and waving enticingly at a man with a beard that looks like he lost control of his razor while shaving. Johanna rolls her eyes. I guess the other mermaids didn't get the memo about making a difference.

"He's revolutionizing this industry. Making it less of a fucking joke than it already is. We may never be stars, but at least we're going to mean something."

Maybe it's the heavy-handed implication of rebellion she's laid out in codes, or maybe it's just my slowed down brain catching up at last, but the lightbulb flickers on, and I nearly tip over from the realization.

I'm speaking to a rebel.

"So you…?"

"That's right, Blondie. I'm making those assholes who took everything from me pay for it."

"Were you in this alleged film, then?"

Johanna scoffs and leans back, letting her large tits float above the water, "Sure, yeah. Me and the girls get a little screen time. I'm no Annika, and certainly not the infamous Girl on Fire, but…"

"Girl on Fire?" I interrupt. This is the first I've ever heard of that name.

"Are you really that brainless? Or did I just fuck you up with one too many shots?" Johanna chides, splashing water in my direction. When several party-goers turn their heads at the scene, Johanna seamlessly transitions into her assigned part for the evening. Playing coy and laughing lightly, she touches my leg with rehearsed, playful ease.

"Seriously, Johanna," I say, wiping the chlorine out of my eyes as my scattered brain tries desperately to piece the apparently very obvious pieces together. "Who's…? _Oh_ , you mean Katniss." I say it aloud again, just for hear the effect it has. "Katniss Everdeen. The Girl on Fire."

"Yes, Katniss," Johanna nearly spits, eyes flashing. "Jesus, you got a crush on her or something, Mellark?"

"Uh—no. What? I don't know her…I mean, she's…no," I answer lamely, completely caught off-guard by a question that was meant to be harmless and rhetorical but has somehow left me scrambling for answers.

Johanna chuckles.

"It's alright, Lover Boy, the Girl on Fire is very hot shit. Everyone thinks so. It's most likely how she earned the stupid fucking nickname…"

"Why do you hate her so much?"

She shrugs, and the movement sends the water rippling around her creamy shoulders.

"Why else? She gets all of the glory and none of the struggle. And the whole defender-of-the-helpless act is a bit much. Except it's not an act, which makes it even worse," Johanna says, hiding very little of her opinions surrounding Katniss Everdeen. "If you end up finding her here tonight and relay this to her, tell her she's free to take any of what I said personally."

"Duly noted," I tell her, earning my first genuine smile from her all evening.

Meanwhile, my mind is hard at work, keeping track of the small arsenal of information I have on Katniss that grows thicker and hairier by the minute. I want so badly to ask Johanna to elaborate on it, but if I have any hope of keeping this ally, I'll play my cards right.

"If I'm hearing you correctly, Katniss is the star of this project?"

"Katniss _is_ the project, Lover Boy," Johanna corrects me, agitation in her voice. "If the revolution against the smog is coming, then she's sure as hell its poster child."

I've been around enough angry women in my lifetime to know that I've reached a very dangerous tipping point with Johanna. Katniss is clearly a sore subject for the mermaid I've been questioning. Slowly, I remove my legs from the pool. Before she chops one of them off with an axe or something. I wouldn't put dramatics past her.

But I take a leap of faith in asking her one final question before we part ways for the evening.

"And what is this project, exactly, Johanna?"

The woman shakes her head, and makes a big show of running two pinched fingers along her lips, fastening an imaginary key, and tossing it over her shoulder.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm just a sexy mermaid talking to a sexy stranger at a fun pool party. Run along now, sexy stranger…before I tattle on you."

I rise, all too quickly, as she arches her back and glides underwater. Her tail follows the rest of her body with a slap that sends another spray of water my way. The combined shock of this and my drunk swaying prove to be disastrous for me.

My foot slips in a puddle of discarded shrimp cocktail and pool water, sending me tumbling backward over the edge of the balcony…

With nothing to hold onto as I plummet two stories down.

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

"Ooh—Gale—yes—harder," Madge utters between breathy pants and pleasured squeaks. "I'm close."

I grunt in response and pound into her with all my might. Moans and groans intensify over the sounds of skin slapping against skin.

The Mayor's daughter keens loudly, fingernails creating crescent-shaped dents in my shoulders.

She's transformed almost completely into another woman — uninhibited, rough. It rivals the prim and proper version of her from before, and I can't tell which version I prefer. They're both equally hot.

"There! Oh, _fuck_ , Gale! Yes, _yes_! There! _Fuuuuuck,_ " she screams, almost manic as the improper words fall from her saintly lips.

I'd be worried about the noise if the sounds of the party weren't still prevailing at full blast.

Tossing my head back, I peer up into the reflective ceiling and admire the view. Me, a lowlife from Chicago, standing upright with my pants wrapped around my ankles, shirt ripped open, shoes still on. Madge Undersee, the girl of probably any man's dreams, perched on the edge porcelain sink with her legs circled around my torso, white dress pooled in her lap, hair undone from its ribbon, breasts bouncing, pelvis rocking back and forth. Jesus, she looks as good as she feels.

"Almost," she whimpers, starting to come undone at the seams. "Almost there."

The heat in my stomach burns white-hot. I'm close as well. With quiet determination, I prop my hand up on the wall above her head and bend down to capture her swollen lips in a chaste kiss. I bite at the sensitive skin at her collarbone before taking one of her hardened pink nipples in my mouth and sucking. At the same time, my hand dips down to press my thumb to her clit. I rub taut, tiny, frantic circles to the rhythm of my hips as I buck up and drill into her tight walls.

That's all it takes for Madge to fall apart. She wails out in ecstasy. Her head hits the back wall as she arches her back completely. As she lets out strings of curses, her quivering thighs squeeze together, entrapping my hand and my throbbing cock. I hiss at the added pressure, and with my free hand, I spread her knee outward and lift her leg over my shoulder to grant me better access.

"Come for me, Gale," Madge whispers, still riding out her climax.

Happy to oblige. Her name caught on my lips, I plunge deeper inside her warm, wet, welcoming entrance to get me tumbling over the edge as well. Madge moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parted slightly. That alone could do it to me.

I follow her orgasm with a resounding cry after several final thrusts.

Both of us are gasping, choking on gulps of air as we come down from our respective highs. Our haggard breaths eventually fall into an even, synchronized pattern. Madge is beaming when she takes my sweaty face in her hands and pulls me in for another kiss. I can still taste my release on her tongue from when her lips were wrapped around my cock, and it causes me to shiver with delight.

"That was…" she breathes.

Amazing? Intense? Mind-blowing? Fucking incredible? I can think of a thousand words for it off the top of my head, but my heart races awaiting her answer.

"…exactly what I needed," she finishes, planting several soft pecks on my lips and cheeks before scooting off of the sink. "Thank you."

While I discard the used condom in a waste bin, she goes to grab her panties off the floor, and I can't help but succumb to the urge to watch her bend over. I have a perfect view of her round, toned ass. The fact that the room she selected is essentially a cube made up of mirrors allows the view to go on for miles. I never thought I'd be so thankful for science. What makes reflections work, again? Something about a trick of lightwaves bending off of the mirror…

I halt abruptly in the middle of adjusting my belt buckle. Mirrors. This room is made of mirrors. Where have I heard that before?

Madge coughs a little, and then I remember.

No. Oh, God, no.

I resist the urge to break every mirror encasing me when I realize, in some sick, twisted turn of irony, that I have just fucked my dream girl in the same room where Mellark vomited his brains out earlier tonight.

My stomach suddenly begins to churn with waves of nausea, and I scramble for the door before Madge can finish zippering her dress. Of course, given the nature of the miniature hall of mirrors I am in, finding the escape is a rather difficult task.

But I don't make it to the door, because my wandering hands push against a revolving panel in the wall adjacent to where I had just gotten Madge to scream my name and fall flat on my face onto a burgundy carpet.

"Oof."

Madge yelps and rushes to my side as I push myself back up.

"Are you alright?" she asks, voice rising with worry.

Groaning, I rub my rug-burned face and bite back the sardonic, but obvious, 'no'.

But my attention is immediately transported elsewhere as the overwhelming stench of cheap cologne hits my throbbing nose, and my investigative instinct tells me to pay very close attention to the room I have quite literally stumbled upon.

My eyes quickly scan the area before honing in on the finer details. It looks to be a bedroom-turned-workspace. What used to be the bed is covered in hastily-drawn penciled sketches of men and women. Some are accompanied with taped-on drawings of skimpy, flashy-looking outfits — sketches for costumes. Others appear like graphic comics, on pages upon pages of what are labeled as 'storyboards'. The floor is scattered with strips of film, and several cases holding labeled reels are stacked at the foot of the bed.

Bringing my gaze upward, I note the sewing machine — and a yard of fabric still positioned under the needle in preparation to be stitched — stationed on a desk. Racks upon racks of brightly-colored, shimmering, pressed clothes are lined against the back wall. They must have been Cinna's. There's a certain showmanship to these designs that suggest the artistic hand Beetee claimed he had.

The furthest costume rack is labeled, and it causes me to gasp when reading it.

'If we burn, you burn with us.' Annie Cresta's final words.

Whatever this place is, it's filled with a treasure trove of things Plutarch Heavensbee probably wouldn't be thrilled with me finding.

I spring to my feet and rush to the desk, Madge hot on my heels behind me. Knowing I may not have much time in this room of secrets, I pour over the seemingly endless supply of sketches in search of something, anything useful that points to Katniss' whereabouts.

The room stops spinning when I find it, buried under two sketches of men in underwear made of what looks like fish-netting.

A green sticky note with flight information on it.

Written in the familiar sloppy cursive of Katniss Everdeen.

"What is that?" Madge asks, reading the note over my shoulder. "It just looks like a bunch of numbers…"

"Maybe," I say, "but they might mean something."

There is a loud, angry pounding on the bathroom door. Madge jumps. I pocket the note. On the other side of the door, the belligerently drunk intruder is demanding we stop hogging the bathroom and let him take his long-awaited dump.

Grabbing Madge by the wrist, I pull her back into the room and instruct her to make herself look as disheveled as possible while I carefully move the trap door back into place.

We exit the bathroom with our heads hung in shame as we cross paths with the impatient man. He makes some sniveling remark about us, as expected, and I smile at the floor as I throw one arm around Madge's shoulders. Shoving my other hand into my pocket, I run my fingers over the sticky note.

We're in the clear.

"Now what?" Madge asks, eyes wide and voice just loud enough to be heard by only me over the pulsating music.

Regretfully, I know what I must do next. Grabbing her shoulders, I spin her around and kiss her with all the tenderness I can muster in this congested room.

"You and I are going to need to part ways, at least until I can find Mellark and figure out our next move," I tell her, even though it's the furthest thing from what I want to do with her.

Taking her hand, I turn her palm over and let my fingers graze the silken skin of her inner wrist. I take the pen from my jacket pocket and hastily scribble my phone number into her palm.

"In the meantime, go home. Get some sleep. Call me in the morning, or if you need anything, and I'll let you know what information we find."

Madge smiles, and standing up on her tip-toes, she kisses my cheek before pulling herself from the velcro of my embrace. Immediately, the space between us is filled with another person, and then five, ten…and as quickly as she came to me, she vanishes.

Madge has ignited another spark in me, and she has become another reason why Mellark and I have to find Katniss Everdeen before another sunset eats up the time ticking away on our clock.

Now, if only I could find Mellark.

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

As I fall to certain death, I realize that I am allotted little time to think about all the wrongs that I never got to right. So, I focus on my most recent shortcomings. I never got to help Hawthorne and be the hero I thought I could be when I signed up for this job. I never got to get Prim out of that stupid rental home. I never got to thank Greasy Sae for all the free booze. I never even got to tell Katniss Everdeen that I think she's the most beautiful girl in the world —

Every thought is cut short when my body lands in a bed of actual roses, thus cushioning my fall and saving my life. Despite some cuts and scratches from the thorny bush, I am alive. Holy shit.

The celebration is short lived, however, because I roll from the rosebush and hit the ground hard before the momentum sends me tumbling down the hill. Slamming my back against the sturdy trunk of a tree is the only thing that finally slows me down to a sudden stop, much to my chagrin.

I groan. My back aches, sending tendrils of pain up and down my spine every time I attempt to move. Under my soggy cast, my broken arm screams at me for being so careless.

Something rustles in one of the bushes further down the hill, and I am immediately sitting up, despite my sore body's protests. When I reach into the pocket inside my jacket for my gun to defend myself from whatever is stalking me behind those bushes, it's gone. I pat myself down quickly and realize with horror that I must have lost the damn thing on the long way down.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…" I mutter, scrambling around in the dirt and leaves for any trace of the gun. The bushes rustle again.

God, or whoever has it out for me up there, was just fucking with me before. This is how I'm going to die.

I'm dumbstruck with what I come face to face with. Instead of some spear-wielding assassin like the ones Hawthorne described were after him, I've been reduced to feeling defenseless because of a girl.

She peers out at me from behind another tree, and her footsteps are quiet, tentative as she moves across the forest floor. Her brilliant, bright, strapless red dress swooshes around her feet, and the jewels at the bottom of her skirt make it look like she's walking through fire.

Her dark hair is pinned up, but it's fallen loose — presumably from ending up here. Her olive-colored skin glistens. Her made up face — or at least what I can make out of it that isn't a blurry blob — is twisted in fear as she gazes upon me, rosy lips forming a surprised 'O', like she can't even believe I'm real.

Wow, she's really pretty. The prettiest person I've seen here tonight, hands down.

My hazy mind, trapped in a thick fog of alcohol and numbing pain, tells me that I ought to communicate to this girl that I won't hurt her. Maybe we can help each other get back to the party.

"Hey, uh. I'm looking for a gun?" I blurt out. A branch snaps under the girl's feet as she takes a cautious step away from me. I hold up my hand and my casted arm. "I'm not going to hurt you with it. I just need it and could use your help finding it. I think I lost it somewhere when I fell…"

Her stormy eyes widen and seem to scream get away. Without so much as a word, she spins on her heels and runs off past me, back in the direction of the Palace. I twist myself around as far as my injuries will let me and try calling out to her, but it's no use. She disappears into the shadows of the night.

Fuck. I lean back against the tree trunk that broke my fall and sigh in defeat. Maybe I'll just get lucky and die here anyway.

Thankfully, I didn't lose my cigarettes during my rough landing. I pull one from the foil lining inside the little cardboard box and prop it between my lips while I grab my lighter.

Flicking the rounded gear at the top of the lighter, I watch the contraption spark several times before catching fire. The flame, a long, thin wisp flickering between shades of orange, red, blue, and yellow, distracts me from the task at hand as I go back to thinking about that girl's dress, and how this dancing light looks exactly like the woman who just ran from me.

Shaking her from my thoughts, I go back to the task at hand. But when I raise the lighter toward my lips, I notice the strange shadow that the flame casts on the tree beside me. Something large, still, and shaped very much like a human has been beside me, shrouded in darkness all this time.

Waiting for me?

I gulp audibly. Yup. This is where I die.

Slowly, I lift my trembling hand with the lighter to be at my eye level and look to my right.

The cigarette sticks to my bottom lip as my jaw unhinges in shock. My lighter drops to my side, removing the warm yellow glow from around me. My alcohol-rich blood runs cold.

I am staring into the eyes of a dead, bludgeoned corpse. Now I know why that girl ran away.

And I try to scream, but nothing comes out.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Hawthorne manages to find me just moments later, my gun secured in his hands. Being the hunter that he is, I don't doubt he just sniffed the air for the overwhelming scent of vodka, vomit, and failure and followed it to this spot.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, Mellark! What the hell are you doing down here?" he asks. My gaze quickly flits up toward the edge of the balcony, where the pool drops off. Said drop-off is higher than it felt going down. I look back so fast, I don't think he'll notice the otherwise undetectable gesture.

But Hawthorne's like a goddamn hawk and sees everything.

"Wait…did you fall?!" he all but shouts. He sounds flabbergasted, like even he can't believe I survived such a feat. He also sounds a little entertained by my literal downfall, which pisses me off. "How are you not dead?"

I shrug. Because I have no logical answer for that, after brushing what I thought was death three times in the past twenty minutes. And also because someone is actually dead and propped up beside me, so it puts a whole lot into perspective.

"By the way," Hawthorne continues, filling the silence between us. He steps toward me and drops the gun in my lap. "You dropped something."

Trying to utter a weak thanks, I open my mouth, but no sound escapes. The cigarette, still stuck to my dry bottom lip, swings limply.

Now forced to be the chatty one of the pair, Hawthorne's thick eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"What the hell's gotten into you, Mellark? You look like you've seen a ghost."

He's not too far off, actually.

I swallow the lump in my throat and manage to point over my shoulder to the cold body that's been keeping me company while I patiently waited for my knight in shining leather jacket. Hawthorne nearly stumbles backwards down the hill when he realizes what I'm showing him.

"Fuck!" he hisses, regaining his balance. "Who the fuck is that?"

Leaning heavily on the tree to assist me in standing back up, I sway for just a few moments before the thought of this man's blood-stained face causes a stream of bile and alcohol to shoot up my throat. I lean over and empty my stomach's contents for the second time tonight.

Meanwhile, Hawthorne's carefully approaches the body and starts poking around for clues. In the breast-pocket of his purple and gold paisley shirt, Hawthorne confiscates the dead man's wallet to identify him.

Hawthorne nearly drops the wallet, eyes going comically wide as he looks back up at the murdered man.

"Mellark," Gale starts, his voice trembling as he sizes up the victim. "This is _motherfucking_ Plutarch Heavensbee."

And just when I didn't think my short little body could handle violently upchucking three times in a row, I prove myself wrong.

The action causes reality to snap back into place like a rubber band as the past events come screaming back to me. The girl I had run into earlier saw me sitting next to the dead body, asking her to help me find my gun. She easily may have identified him as the party's host, placed me as the man who killed Plutarch, and run away from me to get help.

"We have to get rid of the body," I say suddenly, rushing up to where Hawthorne examines the rest of the wallet's contents for more information. "I saw a girl here earlier when I fell. She probably spotted me with Heavensbee and assumed I killed the guy."

Hawthorne's gray eyes snap up to meet mine. For once, he doesn't look like he wants to fight me on this. He may actually be sort of acknowledging that this is a good idea.

Jumping at the opportunity before he can, I volunteer to take the feet. I grab one Heavensbee's shoes in my good hand while positioning his other leg over my cast. Hawthorne glowers in my direction as he lifts Plutarch from under his armpits.

As we start down the hill, the dead porn financier's head rolls back into Hawthorne's chest. Gale recoils at the sight of the gruesome injury that must have fatally knocked the guy out.

Walking proves to be a task of immense difficulty, given my current state. After the fourth or fifth stumble, Hawthorne, who has now been assigned with most of the hefty man's dead weight, pipes up.

"Jesus, Mellark, can you walk straight?"

"Excuse me if I'm carrying a dead body," I fire back. "Sorry I'm not Berry-shenkoff…"

"You can't even pronounce _Baryshnikov_ correctly," Hawthorne rebukes, his voice dipping down further into the ditch of annoyance I seem to be digging for him.

"What the hell is your problem, Hawthorne? You know, if you're upset, you should communicate it with me. That's healthy partnership. Otherwise, I'll never know why there's a giant stick lodged up your ass..."

We reach a wooden fence at the bottom of the hill. Hawthorne suddenly sets Plutarch's body down with a rough _thud_ , and the surprise shift in weight nearly sends me down with him.

"You're wasted," he announces angrily. At least I think he's angry. I can never tell with a man who seems like he's constantly cruising in neutral territory. I'm also still seeing double, so there are two potentially angry Gales staring me down.

Gesturing toward my dripping jacket and sloshing shoes, he adds, "And you're soaking wet."

Oh, I know where this is going. He's ready to just assume I fell in the pool and made a mockery of myself — which is somewhat true. But I _stayed_ in the pool to get very valuable information from an actual rebel.

"Yeah, I was in the pool," I counter, readying myself to defend my very nuanced way of investigating.

"Why?" Hawthorne asks, punching out the word in a way that makes him sound like he's trying to extract information from a small child.

"I had to question the mermaids!" I exclaim, gaping over what I thought would have been an obvious conclusion he could have come to on his own.

"Unbelievable," Hawthorne spits vehemently. "We're here for a very specific task, and you couldn't stop yourself from drinking."

"I was _working_ ," I argue, stamping my foot on the ground at the far end of the body that serves as a buffer between us. "What were _you_ doing while I was working?"

For as good as he is at inferring what someone else has been up to, he's got one of the shittiest poker faces I've ever seen. With a dopey smile plastered to his face, he starts blushing and his fingers fly to his neck. The skin on his throat is covered in long, dark marks.

And I just like that, I have my answer.

"Oh, nice. Real classy," I leer at him. "Haven't see hickies like that since my senior prom, Hawthorne. Guess if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Way to get into the spirit of the party…"

"It wasn't like that!" Hawthorne bursts out in a shocking state of emotional vulnerability. "Madge is Katniss' cousin. She was also here looking for Katniss. She was worried sick about her."

"Glad you could provide her with a distraction, then."

"Will you shut up? We ran into each other, and we got to talking…I wasn't expecting anything to happen, but one thing led to another. She's incredible, and smart, and accomplished, and kind, and beautiful. It has to be illegal to be that perfect. And the sex — my God, Mellark, the _sex_ with this woman — it was out of this world. Take the best sex you've ever had, and times that by a thousand."

"Marian Weathers for two minutes and thirty-eight seconds in a McDonald's parking lot times _a thousand?_ Gee, must have been _fucking_ incredible."

But Hawthorne's new rose-colored glasses apparently can't detect blatant sarcasm or pathetic anecdotes.

"It was. I mean, what this girl can do with her mouth…"

Nose crinkling, I cut this unwarranted locker room talk short with a dismissive wave of my hand. I don't want to think of Katniss' cousin doing _anything_ to Gale Hawthorne. Especially because the proximity of the situation to _Katniss_ makes me prickle with that leaden lump of jealousy in my throat again, and I'd rather not feel that tonight.

"Please, spare me the details of your lovemaking," I insist, bending down to pick Heavensbee's legs back up. "Let's just get rid of him and get out of here."

Hawthorne obliges. Together, we dump Heavensbee's body over the fence. The sound of our disposal crashing into something, followed by the subsequent sounds of broken glass and horrified screams, causes us to turn back around. Hawthorne peers over the fence's edge with little effort, while I have to jump and grip on the wooden pickets to get a decent look at the scene we've just created.

Some poor, Hispanic couple has just had their wedding reception ruined by an uninvited guest.

"Run," Hawthorne says hastily as he starts chugging back up the hill. Shouting back to where I stand, frozen and stunned while the bridal party goes up in hysterics, he implores, "Mellark, haul some ass!"

 _"¡Ay, Dios mio!"_

Sir, yes, sir.

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

We return to the party, me practically carrying Mellark since he keeps tripping over himself. Despite the fact that it's nearing one in the morning, everything — the lights, the music, the sexual fervor — is still going strong.

It's as if Plutarch's death means nothing, almost. He's been dead for God knows how long tonight, and yet his party in his Palace has continued without him like nothing happened.

Letting the previous events of the evening take a back seat, Mellark and I set off down the driveway leading into the Palace's entrance for one last attempt at a lead on Katniss.

But the collision of someone charging right into me, waving her arms wildly in distress, stops us in our tracks.

"Madge?" I stutter, taken aback by the fact that she is the one who just ran into my arms. She should be on her way home by now. "What are you still doing here?"

Her breaths are erratic, her face is a ghastly pale shade of white, and her eyes, wildly darting everywhere, are filled with fear. I hold her close to me, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head to calm her down. Mellark looks like he's going to barf again at the display of affection.

"Gale!" Madge breathes. "I'm so glad I found you!"

"What's wrong?" I ask. "Are you okay?"

"I was on my way to leave, but while I was waiting for my car, I saw that little girl you were talking to earlier. She was with the blonde porn star…it looked like she was taking her away to a suspicious vehicle."

Peeta's face suddenly turns a complimentary shade to Madge's countenance. Looking like he may faint, or scream, or both, his shaking lips can barely form a whisper around his sister's name.

Springing into action, I brace Madge by the shoulders and ask her if she saw the car leave yet. I breathe just a little easier when she shakes her head.

"It's right there!" Madge cries, pointing a shaking finger at a seedy-looking limo just up the way.

We are notified just in time to watch a man with a blue face jump out of the car and snatch Primrose Mellark as Glimmer roughly shoves her into the backseat.

"Prim!" Peeta shrieks, running as fast as his drunk legs will carry him up the walkway toward the limo. Madge and I follow behind him.

Once we're close enough to get a better view of the sleek black limo, with its tinted windows and its missing license plate, I get a full view of the following scene that unfolds, action by action, frame by frame, like those storyboards from the secret room:

The emcee announces that the Bee Gee's will be up on stage next. There is a loud cheer from the audience that drowns out Prim's terrified scream.

Before Glimmer can shut the limo's door, Blue Face's hand juts out, gun raised and ready to shoot at someone in the valet area. He fires two shots into the crowd, and people scream as they scatter.

Prim reaches over him, grabs the handle inside the car door, and shuts it as hard as she can on blue-faced Marvel's hand.

Blue Face hollers and yanks her back into the car, but not before Prim bellows, "Katniss, run!"

Madge gasps out her cousin's name, and all of our heads turn to spot the woman of the hour.

Katniss Everdeen, in a long red dress with fake flames burning from fire-colored gemstones at the bottom, narrowly dodges another bullet before making her escape down the hill and into the forest we had just come from.

While her captor is still whining, Prim makes her own quick getaway, following Katniss into the forrest. Marvel screams in anguish and chases after them, shouting over his shoulder to whoever drives the limo to get to the end of the forest. The limo speeds off up the road, most likely following the order.

Mellark rushes over to a shell-shocked valet and asks where the forest leads. Without waiting for an answer, he knocks an old man out before he can step into his bright yellow sports car, gets in, and speeds after the limo.

I tell Madge to go back into the party and call for help, and I tell her I'll meet her there once I've gone to help Mellark find Prim and Katniss before Marvel does.

Until I feel someone leap onto my back and latch onto me, accompanied by the cool, sharp blade of a knife pressing into my jugular.

"Miss me, Handsome?" Clove asks with a deadly purr in my ear.

* * *

 **A/N: And they're off! Sorry this update hasn't been as speedy as others have been. Life got in the way, and then I had some difficulty with uploading (I'm still trying to figure out the Mac world since I've been a PC girl for years), but this chapter was a lot of fun to write and I hope you enjoyed! In the film, the party scene reminded me so much of the parties held in the Capitol, so I went to town combining the worlds there.**

 **Let me know what you think, now that we've had some Katniss sightings, some THG character cameos, some more mysterious murders, and lots of action! More to come as soon as possible! Thanks guys!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**

 **P.S. - If you enjoy the music of the era as much as I do, a fun fact about this fic is that all the chapter titles are titles of popular songs from 1970-1977, so check those and the artists mentioned in the chapter out if you're interested!**


	6. Five: Bohemian Rhapsody

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film The Nice Guys. All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Five: Bohemian Rhapsody *~*~*~***

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

For someone this small, Clove can certainly put up a huge fight.

I'd love to compliment her on such a feat, but she's a little preoccupied with trying to exterminate me at the moment.

With her mounted to my back, I manage to maneuver my way out of our awkward tango by elbowing her in the stomach. She cries out and flies backward, landing on the hood of a car and setting off its alarm.

This gives me a running start in the opposite direction. Her footsteps grow dangerously close to mine, pushing me faster up the dirt road.

We manage to stumble through the front doors of the Palace, and Clove wastes no time or innocent bystanders in her wake as she tackles me to the ground. The crowd of drunken partygoers parts around us in terrified ripples. People run into each other as they search for safer ground.

Clove puts all of her weight behind her swings and punches, which I greatly underestimate given her size. She delivers a blow to my jaw that almost spins me completely around.

With a manic cry ripping through the once-vibrant air of the party, Clove charges at me with her knives. I intercept her at the last possible second, grabbing her by the arm and flipping her so that she flies through the open door leading to the outdoor deck.

Drum symbols crash and necks of guitars smash in a chord of dissonance as the musicians are abruptly ushered offstage by the emcee. Topless mermaids shriek and scatter as they pull themselves out of the pool and flounder on dry land.

Meanwhile, I ready my gun.

Rebounding from slamming her back on hard concrete with impressive elasticity, Clove is up and swinging her heavy boot at my head for a roundhouse kick that I dodge by diving into the pool. The lethal woman wastes no time before jumping in after me, and in an underwater struggle for power, water splashes up the sides of the pool and soaks the frightened guests. I manage to push away from her by slamming into her chest. While she sinks to the bottom with no air left in her winded lungs, I climb out of the pool and shout at the remaining bystanders to evacuate the deck.

Gunshots ring out from behind me as the stampede makes its way to the door. Several people's costumes are stained bright red as they fall.

When I whirl around, Clove is standing with her gun raised, ready to shoot again at innocent people before coming after me.

Sadistic bitch.

Rushing along the water's edge, I push her over to Plutarch's bubbling hot tub and chomp down on her hand just as her finger pulls the trigger. The bullet flies up into the air as screams ring out from where everyone has been packed inside.

We wrestle for a long while by the hot tub before I can knock the gun out of her hands. It lands with a plop into the bubbling water. Clove wraps a strong hand around the back of my neck and submerges my head, holding it under the water in an attempt to drown me. Blindly, my hands grope at the slippery tub floor for the gun.

She screams when I shoot her through the wooden lining of the hot tub in the thigh. I toss the gun over the balcony and into the forest where we found Plutarch.

Pushing her down, I straddle her and pin her hands above her head. She struggles in vain to wriggle a hidden switchblade from inside her sleeve. I confiscate that and throw it into the forest as well.

"Told you not to make an enemy out of me," I remind her, smirking victoriously as I watch the realization that I have the upper hand dawn on her.

Clove spits in my face.

As much as I'd like to put an end to her and her sneak attacks right now, I know I can't do that with however many witness are watching us with bated breath. And I also know that her little sidekick is after Katniss and Prim at this very moment.

Taking her by the shoulders, I quickly slam her head against the side of the tub — just enough pressure to knock her out. Nothing damaging. Several gasps and cheers ring out from my audience.

Without so much as a second thought, I only make it halfway down the flight of stairs from the deck before I dismount the balcony and hit the ground running. I decide to cut through the forest that Blue Face chased Prim and Katniss into in order to get to the street faster.

I race through the woods, ducking under branches and jumping over roots with heightened senses due to the adrenaline coursing through my veins in hot currents. Eventually, I make it out onto an open road. Running out from the line of the forest, I look up and down the street for any signs of runaway girls or crazed killers.

Other than the unsettling fog that blocks my vision, I am alone.

Until oncoming headlights wash over me. Three quick, loud honks, followed by a long blaring horn, come from the car that is barreling my way. Because of the bright lights in my eyes, I can't make out more than a blur of the shouting driver. I jump out of the car's way in the nick of time just as it steers in the opposite direction away from me — crashing into the trunk of a tree. The airbags pop open in the tiny crawlspace from where the hood has been smushed against the tree, successfully trapping whoever was driving.

The window of the canary-yellow car rolls down, and I am met with two startled blue eyes.

"I don't know how familiar with the rules of the road you are, Hawthorne, but generally speaking, when a moving vehicle honks its horn, rule of thumb is get the fuck out of its way," a very whiplashed Mellark, now sporting a cut on his head that rivals mine, shouts through the open car window.

"Generally speaking, drivers should always yield to pedestrians," I quip back, placing my hands on my hips. "And shouldn't be driving drunk to begin with."

Mellark rolls his eyes.

"Well, don't just stand there! Help me!"

Rushing to wrench the car door open, both Mellark and I struggle with undoing his seatbelt and setting him free from the wreckage. If only Clove and her knives were here, I wonder aloud ironically.

Mellark huffs in frustration.

"Go find Prim. They shouldn't be too much farther up the road; I lost them less than a minute ago," he demands, pointing in the opposite direction from where he came speeding at me from, up the creepy foggy path that leads to seemingly nowhere. "I'll catch up."

I nod quickly before running with long strides through the mist toward Primrose.

The fog has just begun to thin out when I come upon three shadowy figures illuminated by disappearing taillights. Over the sounds of screeching tires, I move closer toward the silhouettes. One standing, hunched over and waving its arms wildly. Another kneeling, bent over the third figure that lies unmoving on the ground.

"Mister Hawthorne!" Prim sobs out my name when she spots me coming through the clearing. Tears stream down her face, and her nose is bright red. She's been crying. She could be hurt.

"Help! We have to help him!"

Him? Confusion wracks my brain. As I come closer, I see everything with screaming clarity.

The small heels of her palms are pumping against the shuddering chest of a man whose blue face has been tainted with red blood. The complimentary shades have mixed together to smear his cheeks and forehead with a sticky purple substance. His chest rises and falls in shallow hiccups as he gasps for air. Upon seeing me tower over him, his eyes go wide before they flutter shut.

"What happened, Prim?"

Struggling to regain her composure, Prim sniffles and relays to me, "He chased us out here and had us cornered. He was just about to lunge at us when a huge truck came by and hit him, but they freaked out and drove away. He flew maybe fifteen feet down the road to this spot right here. The car he was in when he took me fled too. And now he's dying…we have to help him."

I resist the urge to scoff at a thirteen-year-old. I'll help Blue Face, alright. Over his dead body.

Which is an ill-timed statement, considering he _is_ dying.

Meanwhile, Katniss Everdeen stands a safe distance away from the hit-and-run scene. Her train of thought seems to be where mine is on the subject of saving Marvel's life, as she has been shouting impassioned demands at the younger girl to abandon him since I first approached.

"Come on! There's nothing you can do for him! We have to get out of here before they come," she orders Prim urgently, arms extended toward her. As if finally noticing that they aren't alone anymore, her eyes flit up toward me, fill with recognition, and widen. Her mouth suddenly clamps shut.

Her feet start propelling her backward before the rest of her body can catch up. Prim cries out her name.

"Katniss, please stay with us! You're not safe if you run! Mister Hawthorne can keep you from any more harm," Prim's voice is choked by more oncoming sobs as she pleads with the older girl she rescued earlier.

Katniss' eyes, the bright silver of her irises highlighted by the moonlight streaming through the treetops lining the bottomless back pupils, flash with conflicted emotion. Her shoulders slump, but her feet still carry her further away — like half of her wants to believe Prim that I can keep her safe while the other thinks I'm no better than the man who chased her out here.

Holding my hands up as a gesture of peace, I let my gun drop to the ground with a clamor that makes Primrose whimper. Everdeen eyes me with suspicion and curiosity.

"Katniss," I begin, keeping my voice calm, low. I don't make the mistake of calling her Catnip in this dire hour. "She's right. You'll be safer if you stay with us."

The girl seems beside herself over the notion, and I can practically see the cogs and wheels turning inside of her head as she evaluates her options. Her mouth opens, and then closes, and then opens again. She looks over her shoulders at the open road, and then at Prim, and then back at me.

And then she runs. Her red fire dress fades away as she dashes further into the shadows. Prim calls out to her, but Katniss Everdeen continues to run without looking back.

Cursing myself for letting her get away, I motion for Prim to follow me back up the road to find Peeta.

But the younger Mellark sibling stays put. Blood from one of the many injuries Marvel must have sustained when he was hit by a car moving at full speed pours between her fingers, covering the innocent ivory of her skin in tracks of crimson.

"No, we can't just leave him here," Prim says. Stating the obvious, she adds, "He'll die."

"Prim…" I start, trying to figure out the best way to tell her that Marvel deserves to die.

Marvel croaks out something indecipherable, and Prim's eyes immediately well with sympathetic tears. I see for the first time why Mellark was so damn adamant about keeping her away from the investigation. Not only is she liable to be harmed in any way (like she could have been had Marvel not become roadkill by a lucky stoke of fate), but she is too pure, too good, to see any kind of corruption and not want to fix it.

I should have guessed that much simply based on the way she cares for her brother. Anyone with a moral compass big enough to not give up on Mellark shouldn't be calling the shots on who lives and who dies.

So, sighing, I tell her to run up the road and try to find someone who can help. Stealing one last pained glance down at Marvel's busted up body, she darts into the fog.

The blue-faced bastard starts laughing before she's even out of earshot. Leave it to this asshole to take advantage of the delicate heartstrings of a little girl in his final moments.

"Looks like you've got a soft spot afterall, Handsome," he wheezes. I grant him the courtesy of allowing him time to take several shallow gasps of air before he can go on. "You don't win by killing me, you know."

"Just like you didn't win by killing Plutarch Heavensbee," I answer. "Nobody ever wins."

He smiles a taunting, bloody smile at me before a violent cough wracks his body and leaves him gurgling.

"They're sending Cato next," he says, voice just barely above a whisper as it floats up to the wind that rustles the trees. He's close to dying on his own, even without my assistance. "And not only will he kill the girl, but he'll come for you, your partner, and his little sister."

He offers nothing else. This Cato, whoever he may be, has been sent by them, whoever _they_ may be. He is now on the hunt for us all. There's no telling where he is, or how dangerous he may be.

My racing thoughts are cut off when Marvel starts to howl with laughter. Its piercing sound nearly splits my head in two, causing me to hiss a string of curses at him.

Marvel laughs on. Mocking me, taunting me.

To quell his menacing spirit once and for all, my hands wrap around his neck, thumbs digging into the open wounds. My stomach churns when he makes a strangled noise due to my ministrations. I close my eyes and choke him by squeezing with all my might. He laughs up until the very last ounce of air has left him, and then he is lifelessly grinning up at me. A blue, mirthless cheshire cat still laughing from somewhere beyond this world.

I quickly go to shut his eyelids, leap away from the dead body, and try to rid the sound of his cackles from my tortured brain.

When Prim returns, bearing the news that she couldn't find any roadside assistance, I tell her that Marvel died from his own injuries. She weeps, uncontrollable sobs that shake her entire body, and without warning, she wraps her arms around me. Burying her head in my chest, she soaks my shirt with her compassionate tears. I resist prying her off of me.

Because I don't deserve to share in her good-hearted mourning.

Having finally broken free from the site of his previous collision, Mellark stumbles down the road and comes into view. Upon spotting Prim in my arms, he cries out her name with relief. He's grinning from ear to ear, purely overjoyed to see that he's found her alive. Prim rips out from my embrace and flings herself into her brother's arms. He trembles as he crouches down, examining her for any signs of harm, before hugging her close again.

He tells her that she's okay, that he's here, and that it's real.

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

The alternating flicker of blue, red, and yellow lights up the road as the cops and paramedics arrive on the scene just moments after I am reunited with Prim.

Hopping out of one of the police cars is the Mayor's daughter, Madge Undersee, who rushes to Gale once she spots him.

She barks some orders at the law enforcement like the well-trained ring-leader of a circus. Comes with the territory of her father's authority, I suppose. The police scatter to investigate Marvel's dead body and tape off the scene while Madge sticks her tongue down Gale's throat.

I cover Prim's eyes, sparing her at my expense.

"It's just kissing, Peeta," she retorts. "I know what kissing is like."

"Yeah, but — wait, how do you know about kissing? Who have you been kissing?"

Some medics come by, wrap Prim in a wool blanket, and explain to us that they need to take her vitals and insure that she is unharmed by the trauma she just underwent. Prim shoots me a look that says she has no plans of leaving my side again, but after an encouraging squeeze of her hand and assurance that I'll be within her view at all times, she follows the medics to the back of the ambulance.

Meanwhile, after our injuries have been examined, one of the detectives interrogates Hawthorne and I on our accounts of the events with Marvel. Hawthorne does most of the talking, saving me from the embarrassment of having to explain that I veered a stolen car into a tree and totaled the damn thing.

"And then Prim went to get help, Officer, but by that point it was too late for him," Hawthorne starts wrapping up.

I notice the bead of sweat that has emerged on his brow, and sense that he's leaving out some details. Not lying, per se. Just selectively relaying the truth. But the detective has his head buried in the notes he's scribbling and his little girlfriend still looks at him like the sun shines out of his ass, so I seem to be the only one harboring suspicion.

Madge wastes little time after Gale's done speaking to ask the question on everyone's minds.

"And Katniss?"

Hawthorne's shoulders cave in toward his chest as he sighs heavily.

"She fled the scene shortly after I found her and Prim…I'm guessing a few minutes after that truck hit Blue Face—I mean, _Marvel_ ," he says sullenly.

Gesturing toward an even creepier, darker patch of woods, Hawthorne tells us that she bolted that way after urging Prim to follow her. The Mayor's daughter blinks away a fresh batch of tears, but keeps nodding.

"Okay, it's a setback, but now we know that she's alive and she can't be far," Madge states. She turns from Gale to the officer. "Detective Boggs, can we get some of your men from Force 451 out looking for her?"

The tall, dark detective nods. "Yes, Miss Undersee. I'll get Homes and Mitchell on the radio. They can ride along the neighboring streets and see what they find."

"Very good, thank you," Madge says with a smile that dismisses him from the conversation.

But before Boggs turns away, he points a finger at Gale. A smile breaks out onto his face.

"Hey, are you that guy from the farmer's market?" Boggs inquires. Hawthorne seems to mull his response over for a moment before he nods tersely.

Madge gasps and snaps her fingers, like she's a detective who's just solved her own case.

"That's where I knew you from! You're Farmer's Market Guy!" she announces. "I _knew_ I recognized you!"

"What's happening? Who the hell is Farmer's Market Guy?" I ask, pressing the icepack I've been given harder to my throbbing head as I try to make some connection between Gale, Madge, and a farmer's market.

No one can hear me, apparently. Boggs and Madge share excited exclamations about Hawthorne like he's some sort of celebrity. I mean, _Hawthorne_ , of all people. Do they have him confused with a very lively cactus?

Hawthorne, meanwhile, looks like he'd rather jump onto the gurney with Marvel's sheet-covered corpse than endure anymore praise for being Farmer's Market Guy. If there's anything I've learned about this man, it's that he values his privacy above all else. This star-sighting could kill him.

After coming down from his high, Boggs claps Gale on the shoulder and bows his head reverently.

"That was some good work you did, son. Back then and today," he tells Hawthorne, who simply nods back. As he returns to his squad car, Boggs steals one more glance over his shoulder at us and cheers to himself, "The Farmer's Market Guy!"

I stare at Hawthorne in disbelief, figuring that's all I'll have to do to earn the warranted explanation. Hawthorne simply shrugs and jams his hands into his pockets, still just as coy and modest as he was before earning celebrity status.

Boggs, as well as some of the other cop cars and medics, pull out of the scene. Immediately replacing them is a sleek, shiny black limousine. It rolls almost silently up to where we stand in the middle of the street. I eye the vehicle warily, given the last limo I had come into contact with had almost been the getaway vehicle of my sister's kidnapping.

Hawthorne starts to step in front of Madge to protect her, but judging by the way she beams at the approaching car, she doesn't need much saving.

"Good, he's here," Madge says. My brow furrows and my eyes narrow as she scampers past me in her clean white dress. the defenses are up and flaring. She's been _anticipating_ this trespasser.

She skips over to the mysterious limo as its window starts to roll down, beaming like Prim on Christmas morning.

"Hello, Grandfather," she greets the person inside jovially.

Madge motions for Gale and I to join her at the other side of the road so we can meet the man who is apparently her grandfather. I barely remember crossing the street, but somehow, I am suddenly hyper-aware of where I am — looking into the stern, wrinkly copper eyes of a man with a pristinely-trimmed white beard, eyebrows like elderly caterpillars, and puffy lips curved up in a smile that twists my insides.

"Gentlemen," the man in the back of the car greets us. "I'm Coriolanus Snow, Head of Panem's Justice Department."

His smile deepens, showcasing a set of yellowed teeth that really compliments the creepy old man vibe he's maintained thus far.

"And I'd like for you to come with me to discuss the matter of my granddaughter, Katniss Everdeen."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Madge plays with Prim's hair in the next room over, braiding it and tying it with pretty ribbons while she asks Prim meaningless questions to distract her from earlier events. I can hear my sister's animated description of middle school drama that I'm sure the older woman could give less than two shits about. But the fact that she's talking at all means that she is happy and safe, so I can breathe a little easier.

In his ornately decorated office, Snow seats us in two very plush arm chairs that face his massive wooden desk. The leather seat he's poised in looks like it should by all means swallow his small stature whole, but the Head of the Department of Justice carries himself in such a distinguished way that he appears much bigger than he actually is.

A long sigh passes through the small opening of his slightly parted lips. The old man runs his hand, covered in blue veins that pop though papery skin, over his tired face. With those same transparent hands, he reaches over to grab a biscotti from a silver tray on his desk, and dips it into his cup of tea.

"First of all, I would like to say thank you," Snow says cordially, his serpentine eyes skittering over both Hawthorne and I as he delivers his thanks. "We've been watching newscasts and going over the interviews, and it sounds like you might have saved my granddaughter's life."

"That was actually Prim. His little sister," Gale pipes up, pointing at me.

I shrug, echoing Hawthorne's selfless dismissal of praise, and tell Snow that, "It's genetics."

"Well, Mister Hawthorne, Mister Mellark, I need your help. I want to know if I can trust you," Snow says, stroking his thick white beard.

"I'm starting to believe that you might not have much choice, Sir," Hawthorne answers.

"Good. I appreciate the honesty," the high-ranked government official seems satisfied with this response from Hawthorne, "Because I think it would make things exceptionally easier if we all agree not to lie to each other."

Snow laughs at this until the low rumbles of his chuckling turn into coughs, violent spasms and gross phlegmy sounds that startle us both with their intensity.

"Are you alright?" I ask. Hawthorne's forehead creases into about four hundred lines of concern. Last thing we need is someone else related to this case keeling over tonight.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just a dry throat, is all," he dismisses our worrying with a wave of his gloved hand. "California can get so arid in the summertime."

Grinning a bit, Snow leans back and raises his tea cup to his lips. He takes a long sip from the steaming mug before setting it back down. I notice several droplets of blood on the rim of the cup where his lips once were and ask him again if he's alright.

"Are you sure you're okay, Sir? Because there's —"

"Yes," Snow snaps. The harshness of his authoritative tone gets me to sit up straighter in my seat. He clears his throat again before he starts. "Gentlemen, sometimes in this world we become symbols, whether we intend it or not. I have become a symbol of power and formality. My situation is a highly…delicate one…"

Gale sits forward as he pipes up, "Wait, I've seen you before. On television. You're prosecuting that car company…"

"The lawsuit against Capitol Vehicles for the catalytic converter, yes," Snow responds off-handedly. "That would be my day job."

My mind floods with thoughts of what Beetee had said earlier today, about the unjust, unsafe practices used by Capitol in order to continue making cars without the converter invented by the genius. How they covered it up by claiming it was too expensive. How Katniss Everdeen's Rebel coalition seems to be working to expose the company for its contribution to the smog.

Her grandfather serving as the prosecution against such crimes puts him on the side of justice. Perhaps he's not such a creepy old man after all.

"I spend the other half of my day on pornography," Snow continues.

Aw, man. I spoke too soon. He is a creepy old man.

"Really?" I blurt out incredulously.

Snow's head bobs up and down in confirmation. His bluntness is truly staggering. My blood boils at the thought of this rich old bag of bones getting off on watching young girls, girls just a little older than Prim's age, in the degrading, compromising positions these films put them in for his own sick enjoyment.

"What kind?" I start asking, getting more of a rise out of the thought as I probe him. "Which films? What's your favorite?"

"No, Mellark," Gale says, with a slight laugh that barely passes for thinly-veiled annoyance. Watching Snow while he speaks to me, Hawthorne adds, "I think he means anti-porn. Like a crusader."

"Oh, right." That makes more sense anyway. To save face from the blunder, I lean forward, grab a pen off of Snow's desk, and start searching for some paper. "Should I be writing all this down?"

"Yeah," Hawthorne agrees.

Snow hands me a clean sheet of paper as white as his facial hair. I dab the end of the pen's ball point with my tongue and start taking notes on what the man has to say.

"The Las Vegas mob is trying to spread its porn operation to Panem, and I'm doing everything I can in my power to stop it. But I can't reach through every television screen and prevent people from watching. If Panem falls into the trap of the mob, our city will undoubtedly experience some very dark days. We've been trying to keep these operations as under wraps as possible. If the information were to get into the wrong hands — say, the media — the public would become impossible to detain. If there is distrust in the town districts, the whole Justice System collapses."

"Must be a pretty fragile system if it can be brought down by nudity and some bad acting," I say with a snort. Snow shoots me a challenging look, and Hawthorne merely smacks me on the back of the head.

"Okay, okay," I talk aloud as I sum up the conversation thus far on the paper, "Porn…is…bad. Got it."

"So you think Katniss has gotten herself involved with this mob?" Gale asks, steering us back on track. Snow nods.

"Due to an experimental film that my granddaughter made with Mister Plutarch Heavensbee, whom I believe was connected to the operations in Vegas, I have every reason to believe that. My granddaughter has a history of being — oh, how do I put this nicely — _impulsive_. Dramatic, delusional. She has a penchant for destructive adolescent fantasies."

"That's…not nice," I mutter, coming to the girl I haven't even met's defense once again. Hawthorne glares at me from his peripheral vision. Snow ignores the comment entirely.

"Ever since her father passed, making me the paternal figure in her life, she has been determined to lash out against me in any way she can. She knows I am at war with the mob, and yet, she's inciting rebellion. Katniss thinks that this is a game."

Snow bites into the biscotti with a contemptuous crunching noise that rattles my nerves and has Hawthorne's fists clenching reflexively.

"I love both of my granddaughters very much, but Katniss has used our family's name and money to get this far, and now the games must come to an end. She has tethered herself to something I don't even think she understands the severity of, and I do not want her to be killed."

Snow smiles and hunches forward in the chair that swallows him. I get whiff of the perfumey white rose fastened to his lapel.

"That is where you two come in. Whatever is on that film, the mob doesn't want seen by the public. Hence why they burned Cinna's house down trying to remove the tape's evidence. But now, I believe that they're after those involved specifically. The sooner this chase is put to rest, the sooner Katniss is back home and safe again."

"What do you need us to do?" Gale asks, gripping the arms of the chair. He's still beating himself up over the fact that we almost had her back home and safe, but he let her get away.

"Katniss won't listen to her old grandfather. That much is clear. But she may be more inclined to listen to friends, allies, people she thinks that she can trust…"

"So you're asking us to be what exactly, Sir? Her bodyguards?" I ask, without relying too heavily on the fact that he is essentially hiring us to be dispensable to his cause.

Snow wordlessly pulls a drawer out from his desk and methodically goes about laying down ten thick stacks of one hundred dollar bills in front of us. I lick my lips as if he's just presented us with a steak dinner. Even Hawthorne looks like his eyes could pop out of their sockets at the sight of Coriolanus Snow presenting us with so much money.

"That is correct, Mister Mellark," he says. "But only if you agree to it. What do you say, gentlemen, do we have a deal?"

Before I act on impulse — impulse being jumping on the cash and rolling around in it until I reek of riches — I find that I am turning to look to Hawthorne. When he became trusted council for our team's finances, I am unsure, but I can't help but wait for some sign from the man I've called partner for a day anyway.

His gray eyes are stormy as he mulls the idea over for a few moments on his own. Then, his gaze flickers up to me, and in his otherwise blank expression, I see everything I already knew when I signed up for this.

Regardless of whether or not this payment could buy off three rental houses, Katniss Everdeen could die if we do not accept this mission. We have to do the job we came here to finish doing.

Plus, if we somehow miraculously make it out of the belly of the beast alive and with Katniss in one piece, we get a shitload of cash to retire early with. It's a win-win…that is, if we win.

I offer the slightest bow of my head toward Hawthorne, a sign that if he's in, I'm in. Hawthorne blinks the knowing glint away before he smiles at Snow and extends his hand.

"We accept."

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

I'm off to retire to my house for the remainder of the evening (which comes out to a mere three hours before sunrise) when I notice him lying on his back on the diving board above an empty in-ground pool in his backyard.

Unsurprisingly, there is a drink clutched in his hand.

"Do you think you're immune to hangovers, Mellark?" I joke as I sidle up to the empty edge of what used to be swimming pool. Now, it just looks like it'd make a better garden. Or a trash collector's dream come true, since there are so many cigarette stubs lining the bottom.

"Haha, good one. Forgot to laugh," Mellark deadpans, staring up into the night sky. His good arm falls from his chest and dangles over the edge of the diving board, tipping some of the copper-colored contents of his glass into the grimy concrete pit below.

I look up to get a taste of what he's seeing from his vantage point. What used to be a velvet blanket glittering with stars is clouded by a murky layer of greenish smog that discolors the clouds and blocks a once beautiful view.

"Mob-conspirator or not, Everdeen's at least got it right that this smog is trouble."

Mellark's head pivots from side to side, his blonde mop of curls flopping all over the diving board as he starts chuckling.

"She might be right about a lot of things. Point is, you said we could find her in two days. Here we are, with half our time wasted, an unsolved murder case, a runaway liability, and no clue where to go from there."

Shifting my weight onto the heels of my feet, I let the weight of Mellark's frustrations with me sink in. And then I remember the sticky note.

"That reminds me, I found a note at Heavensbee's. Has her handwriting on it. I think it might be information about where she's going to be next…"

"Really?" Mellark shoots up, or at least he tries to. His hand flies to his head, which is undoubtedly pounding at this point, and he lays back down.

"On second thought, let's wait to share this information in the morning, Hawthorne. I'll have a—erm—clearer mind at that point."

I pocket the note again and nod. My intrigue is elsewhere, anyway.

"Mellark, I gotta ask you something."

"Sure. I'm not sleeping tonight. Ask me anything."

"You like her."

Mellark's neck cranes to face me, his expression entirely unreadable. Yet his body stiffens. His blue eyes flash with something resembling self-defense.

"That's not a question. That's just a very ambiguous statement."

"So, you do, then. Like Katniss, I mean."

His blonde eyebrows knit together in disbelief before he tries to roll away from me, but his position on the narrow diving board leaves him with little room for escape. He huffs and goes back to staring up into the smoggy sky.

"So what if I do?" he sighs, after a long pause. "I'm a grown man who happens to find a woman attractive. Sue me."

"I just want to know why, I guess," I confess. "You haven't met her, and yet you're willing to put everything on the line for this girl you've never even talked to. It just seems…"

"Crazy, I know," Mellark finishes. "Look, I — I got hired to look for Annika Breasta, and I found her instead. And then I read about who she was, and thought she'd have something to do with the case, so I decided to try to follow her around. See what I could find and maybe make some money off of it."

"Doesn't really answer my question," I point out. Mellark makes a big show of rolling his eyes.

"Well, you asked me a _statement_ , so I'm giving you the long answer," he fires back.

A siren sounds off in the distance, its echo reverberating off of the pool's walls. We both freeze, very familiar to the terror associated with the sound at this point. Eventually, the sound fades away, off to somewhere else in the world where injustice strikes and intersects with someone else's tragedy.

With a deep breath, Mellark continues without me prompting him.

"I remember the moment I saw her. Her hair was in two braids, and she had this old-school looking red plaid dress on. She was walking down Bunker Avenue, stopping to pick dandelions off of people's lawns to tie the stems together and just singing to herself…some song she must have made up. I swear, her voice made the birds in the trees stop to listen. And then, it sort of just happened."

"What happened?"

Mellark's smile is melancholy. "I was a goner."

It's oddly beautiful, regardless of how romanticized the young wordsmith makes it seem.

"Well, when we find her, you should tell her that — minus the stalking parts," I tell him. This actually earns a laugh from Mellark, followed by a long yawn.

"Sure, I'll put that on the top of my list. Right above trying not to get killed before sundown tomorrow," he says sardonically, snapping right back into normalcy and putting his carefully built walls back up again.

I start to move toward the door, assuming the conversation is over, but his voice calling out my name stops me in my tracks.

"What is it, Mellark?"

"Who— _what_ —is Farmer's Market Guy?" he drunkenly tries phrasing the question in the most delicate way possible. He must have gotten the sense back at the crime scene of just how much the temporary title unnerves me.

I think back to that day. It was just a little over a year ago, but I can recall the details down to what I was wearing like it was yesterday.

"I, uh…about a year ago, I was working and stopped at a local farmer's market. Little place outside of the city called The Hob. I was just minding my own business, eating a very good homestyle turkey sandwich, when this guy stands up in the middle of the market. Starts threatening people with a shotgun. I intervened — got shot in the arm doing it. But I managed to beat the crap out of the guy right before the cops showed up. It cost me a lot in hospital bills and recovery time, yeah…but it was…it was the best day of my life."

I'm smiling by the end of the story, rotating my shoulder just a little to remember where the bullet had lodged itself in my arm. Now, it works better than before, thanks to my tireless dedication in physical therapy.

It is very rare in this profession that I have ever felt my efforts pay off, like my work means something. But that day, regardless of whether or not I really was the hero the people at the market and the cops made me out to be, is one of the very few days in my adult life where I have actually felt like I had a purpose.

And I remember thinking, much to my chagrin, just how proud my asshole father would have been of me.

When I look up to witness his reaction, Mellark is sound asleep and snoring softly. His face is relaxed, unbothered, and the glass of alcohol rises and falls where it rests on his abdomen. I think about waking him up, but when I catch sight of the sunken purple bags under his swollen eyes, sharpened by the moonlight, I step back and decide to let him get the well-deserved sleep.

I'm driving back to my apartment when I spot her sitting cross-legged in the vacant lot behind the chainlink fence. Struck with the familiar sense of déjà vu from the moment in which I first noticed Primrose, I park the car and saunter up to the lot.

She's reading aloud from the giant book she had a few days ago, shining a flashlight on its worn pages. I start to hear what she's saying once I cross under the fence and make my way toward her.

 _"And he called out, 'Love, we must flee. We must flee to the hanging tree.' She was unsure if she should follow him, for strange things did happen there…"_

Her voice trails off, and she stares with calculative eyes at the patch of dirt I've chosen to stand upon.

"Your foot's in the toilet," she states, confirming what I think I must have known from the moment I stepped out of my car. I move my foot and step away from the alleged toilet. Prim chuckles. "Now you've fallen into the shower. Just take four steps forward, six to the left, and then two more towards me, and you'll be in my room."

"So, this is where you and your brother lived, huh?" I clarify, following the instructions to the carefully laid-out ground plan that she has committed to memory. Primrose nods, clutching the book of bedtime stories to her chest.

"Peeta never told you what happened probably because he doesn't talk about it. Ever," she tells me solemnly. With a steady finger, Prim points further across the land plot. "That used to be the bakery. We lived here, in the add-on with our parents and two older brothers."

This comes as a bit of a shock to me. I guess because despite knowing that they must have come from somewhere and had family, I never thought to ask about what happened to the rest of the Mellark clan. I just assumed that every family was as broken and prone to abandonment as mine was.

"Daddy was gentle, and kind. Rye was the smart one and the most hardworking, and Branford was the funniest boy in town. Our mother…she wasn't a warm woman. She was unhappy with her life, and she could be very controlling. I was six at the time, not old enough to work in the bakery yet. Our brothers had gone to school to study business and finance, so that they could manage the books, and they worked in the back. Dad ran the front, which left Mom and Peeta in the kitchen. She was always hard on Peeta. He'd come into the house sometimes with bruises and burns and cuts, but he would never say anything. No one thought to ask, or help…and I just didn't know any better."

I allow my thoughts to drift back to every interaction I've had with Mellark, and wince as I think about our very first interaction just several days agp, which consisted of me kicking his ass. Along with the pain, I must have brought him some unpleasant memories of his brutal mother.

"When Peeta came into the bakery and told her that he wanted to go to school to study criminal justice, she became extra hard on him. It meant abandoning the family business, and she couldn't allow her youngest son to choose his own path. Especially since Peeta was the best baker in our family."

I think back to those cookies he made the day we met, and can't say that the Mellark matriarch was wrong there.

Prim eyes me expectantly, as if waiting for me to ask what happened next. I sit beside her in her 'bedroom'.

"Prim," I say quietly. "You don't have to tell me anymore…"

"No, I—I want to," she assures me, although her shaking hands and trembling lower lip betray her.

"About six years ago, there was an explosion. It killed Dad, Mom, Rye, and Branford instantly, and it wiped out the bakery as well as our home. Peeta had burned a loaf of bread secretly answering a phone call from a prospective school, so our mother hit him with the rolling pin and sent him out to pick berries from the garden with me for the pies. He left the old commercial oven on…there was no way anyone could have guessed that there would be a shotty electrical connection hitting the gas wire — it hadn't been inspected in years, and it was working fine…"

Her blue eyes suddenly overflow with tears, tears I'm sure she's tried keeping at bay since she was six. She wraps her arms tightly around my waist and burrows her head into my shoulder, sobbing loudly into the still, dead air of the night.

Rubbing mindless, small circles on her back, I feel like I've been sucker punched in the gut as Mellark's heavily guarded backstory has been laid out to me.

"Peeta could only manage to save me that day. He blames himself for everything else. He doesn't say it, but I know he does," Prim speaks up, sniffling. "So, he just drinks and smokes his way through life and pretends he doesn't care about how much of an asshole it makes him, because it's easier than feeling something for once."

Hugging Prim closer, I suddenly get why she feels the need to follow him, to parent him, this brave little girl who's seen more tragedy in her lifetime than so many people I know. She's fucking terrified of losing the one person she has left.

And then there's Mellark, who lost everything at eighteen-years-old and had to raise his sister on his own. Who would have been completely alone if anything had happened to Prim tonight, and who probably couldn't have survived that agony no matter how much he tried to drink it away.

Prim begins going limp in my arms as a sign of utter exhaustion. She's had a long night. We all have. Her arms drowsily coil around my neck as I lift her bony frame to start carrying her to my car.

"Mister Hawthorne?" she asks groggily, rubbing her red-rimmed, tired eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Did you kill that man tonight?"

My blood runs cold, all thoughts of Marvel having evaded my mind until now. Knuckles blanching as I grip the steering wheel, I keep my eyes focused on the road, on the dimly-lit streetlights that illuminate us every few seconds…anything but the pure-hearted girl asking for the truth.

"No," I lie. "He was busted up pretty badly when you left, kid."

She nods, hopefully swallowing this information as the truth. Although she learned at a young age from her older brother that you can't save everyone, it doesn't mean she won't stop trying to make up for what's lost.

When we reach the darkened rental house, her face falls a little. She exits the car, comes around to my window, and places a kiss on my cheek.

"You're a good person, Mister Hawthorne," she says, with a smile that could clear the smog if she tried hard enough, before rushing inside.

I speed away, with only one thought racing through my head.

I am not a good person. But I sure as hell can try to be.

* * *

 **A/N: And there you have it! Marvel's dead, Clove's on the loose, Cato's coming, and Katniss is still MIA (she'll become a leading player in the next few chapters, I promise). I know that a lot of you have been wanting to know why Peeta is the way he is, and now you have the explanation. One thing that struck me about _The Nice Guys_ was how truly flawed these seemingly elusive characters were and how their tragic pasts were revealed in between comedic sequences, and I hope that's coming across in this fic.**

 **That being said, I'd really love to hear even more from you all in reviews! Admittedly I am spoiled from my past fics' responses, and I very much appreciate those who have reviewed taking the time to do so, but I'd be happy to receive even more responses from those of you reading! If you have a favorite line, moment, something you want clarified/improved upon, or even just want to drop in and say hi, I would truly welcome all it!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	7. Six: Hotel California

**Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The Hunger Games_** **, nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film** ** _The Nice Guys._** **All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Six: Hotel California *~*~*~***

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

 _L.A. Apt. Fl. 13A  
8:35 pm 6-16-77_

Turning Katniss' note over and over in between my fingers, I commit the information to memory. Down to the fancy way she writes her sevens, with a neat line cutting right through the middle of the number.

When I arrive at the Mellark residence the following morning, I expect my partner to be well-rested. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, even. We've got a long, promising day ahead of us.

My stomach sinks in disappointment when I come in and spot Mellark with a glass of _whiskey_ tilted to his lips — at eight in the morning. From where she sits on a stool and eyes her brother with contempt from over the kitchen island, Primrose Mellark seems to share in my sentiment.

"You can't be serious," I bemoan.

Mellark shrugs flippantly. "It's five o'clock somewhere."

"We have work to do, alright? Find Katniss. That should be on the agenda for today, not blackout before noon."

"Watch it, _Dad_ ," Mellark sasses back. Jesus, is he always such a treat in the morning?

Rolling her eyes, Prim lets me know that she is all too used to this routine.

It seems as though all the hugging and crying they did last night is long behind them, and the old grudges they hold for each other are back. The Mellarks are a stubborn people, I've started to learn.

Peeta takes note of Prim's glare and appears to be caught off-guard by it.

"What? What are you looking at me like that for?"

"You're the world's worst detective, I hope you know that, Peeta," she grumbles.

Leaning against their fridge, Mellark's eyebrows arch almost comically.

"World's worst, huh?"

"That's what I said. You can't stay sober for more than twelve hours before you start binging again, and it's disgusting," Prim spits back, hopping off the stool and trying to dodge past her brother in order to leave the room and let her burn really sting him.

Mellark catches her shoulder, spins her around, and brings his cast-covered arm around her to secure his sister in a headlock. Ruffling her bedhead, he shoots her an impish grin.

"I love you too, Prim!" he says, smushing their cheeks together as he hugs her while she tries resisting him at all costs.

"This isn't funny, Peeta!" she cries, wrenching herself from his grasp with a force that indicates she means business. Her cheeks are tinged pink with her rising anger.

Her emotions and frustrations all rear their ugly head as she searches for the right words to say to tell him how she feels.

"You have to stop being such — such an — alcoholic — alcoholic _fuck up!"_

It's a hit. One that I know must hit him hard, given what I now know about his history with fucking up. If Mellark's been impaled at all by this emotional bullet, he patches it up quickly. Hurt flickers across his face before he masks it with reprimanding her.

"Primrose! Language! Jesus Christ!"

They stand chest to chest, toes touching and eyes ablaze. It's one hot blue fiery flame fighting with another. A stalemate.

Before either of them can deliver any more blows, I step in and attempt to alleviate the tension that has suffocated the rental home this morning.

"Alright, let's focus here, Mellarks," I insist, snapping my fingers in order to gain Whiskey Brain and his sagely smart sister's attention. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out the information from Katniss. "I found this in a secret room with Madge at the Palace last night. Same color sticky note she gave me a few days ago. Same handwriting, too."

"So, it's a clue?" Prim, future detective, pipes up.

"Might be," I affirm.

Her soft blonde eyebrows knit together in the same way Mellark's do when he's about to pry for more information.

"How'd you find a secret room?"

"I — uh, I fell through a trap door," I answer, evading the finer details of last evening's circumstances. I'm not gonna be the one to talk birds and bees with her. That's her brother's job.

"Where?"

"The bathroom."

"What were you doing in a bathroom with Madge?" Prim asks innocently. Behind me, Mellark chomps down on the cackle that rises in his throat.

Her eyes widen as they bounce between my semi-exposed love bites and her brother's immature reaction to this mini-interrogation, connecting dots in her mind.

" _Ohhhh…"_

The cackling noise Mellark has been making evolves into choking. Turns out he can't stomach the reality of his kid sister knowing more than he chooses to believe she does.

"Look, it really doesn't matter how or why I found the room. Point is, this flight information is the next step. It's dated for tonight."

Peeta takes the note and views it with a fresh set of eyes — well, fresh as someone as disoriented as him can be, I suppose.

"It looks like she's flying out from LAX at 8:35. If we can catch her right before she boards, then we've got her," I continue.

Mellark doesn't answer right away. He eyes the paper for a long while, bringing it closer to him, and then pulling back. Like the action is somehow going to make Katniss materialize.

He goes on to purse his lips, milking long swigs of his drink as he nods along to whatever train of thought is plowing through his head.

And then, after all that time spent apparently deliberating, he chooses to speak three very pivotal words: "That's not it."

"That's not it? What do you _mean,_ that's 'not it'? I wasn't asking for your seal of approval, I was just showing you!" I nearly shout. It's as if he sees me as a volcano and keeps standing at my fiery mouth, willing me to erupt.

Mellark holds up his finger to silence me while he continues to study the fairly straightforward note-to-self from Katniss, which only makes me angrier.

"Jesus, man, don't just stand there! Give me something to work with!"

Mellark groans, and without actually standing up straight like a grown-ass adult, rolls along the surface of the fridge, to the other side where the handle is. His arms and legs look as if they're made of putty as he scrambles to find the handle and get a good grip on the door.

Prim sighs and looks at me as if to say he's a lost cause.

But I'm not known to give up easily.

I slam the door of the fridge shut before he can even think about wrapping his fingers around the cool neck of a beer bottle. I've tolerated his behavior long enough, but now, I'm at my wit's end with him.

Yanking him by the collar of his shirt, I pull Mellark up with so much force that his feet are dangling off the ground by the time his eyes meet mine.

"Listen here, Mellark — and you better listen well, because I'm only gonna say this once," I inform him, keeping my voice low in order to protect my words from Prim's young ears. "No more being a fuck up. All this feeling sorry for yourself shit ends _now_ , you hear me? We have a mission to complete together. One that we both signed up for. But if you can't handle it — if you can't _do your job —_ then you better fucking speak now, or else all bets are off."

I unclench my fist, letting him fall to the floor in a heap of limbs on his kitchen floor. This feels oddly uncanny to be back here in the exact same positions we were in during our first encounter, and Mellark, sharing in the memory, stuffs his good arm protectively under his chest.

Slowly, he rises to his feet. He runs into a chair, and he grips onto the back for support. The muscles in his back and in his shoulders clench and spasm under the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

Prim and I both watch as he raises his glass of whiskey and staggers to the sink. Peeta watches the glass, his eyes burning with a furious battle that goes on inside himself. I expect him to pour it. Prim expects him to drink it.

But he does neither.

Instead, he turns away from the incriminating item entirely and walks back over to where the note rests, securely on the island.

"I meant that the note isn't flight information. That's not it," he says, clarifying his previous statement. "It's for the Los Angeles Airport Hotel. _'Fl. 13A'_ is referencing Floor 13, not a plane. There aren't thirteen terminals in LAX. Only eight. The Airport Hotel labels their rooms by letter because there are twenty-six rooms on each floor, but there's only one room on the top floor. The penthouse. Room A."

All I can do is stare, eyes unblinking and jaw open so wide it could catch a horde of flies. When I look to Prim, she is frozen in the exact same expression of shock and disbelief.

"How did you—?"

"Took my brothers there all the time for business trips and school. I figured it out from the minute you flashed Everdeen's green Post-It at me," Mellark finishes for me with a nonchalant shrug. Either Primrose told him about my knowledge of his past, or he came to this additional conclusion on his own.

He grins in satisfaction at both of our dumfounded faces before moseying over to the glass and polishing it off, making an overdramatized noise once he's swallowed all of the whiskey.

"See you here at six-thirty sharp, Hawthorne," Mellark orders, his tone suddenly taking on an authoritative quality. Pointing to Prim, he adds, "And _you_ aren't stowing away this time, got it? You're going to your friend's house and staying there, so call Bristel."

"I hate Bristel."

"I thought you liked Bristel."

"No."

"Which one is Bristel, then? The one with the weird teeth?"

"The tall one."

Peeta makes a face. "Oh, _no._ I mean the one from your party. The one you like."

"Rue?"

"Yes, Rue. Call Rue."

Walking in a straight line with newfound ease toward his room, Mellark pauses, like he's forgotten something, and whirls around to face us again.

Winking over his shoulder at his sister, he tacks on, "World's Worst Detective? _Psssh._ "

"Shut up, Peeta," she says. Despite her dismissive statement, I catch the faintest hint of a relieved smile on Primrose's lips before she goes back to scowling.

She doesn't really think he's a fuck up. She thinks the world of him.

And he isn't - a fuck up, I'm saying - not by any means.

I just wish he could see that for himself.

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

We pull up to the modestly-lit Los Angeles Airport Hotel and park out front with next to no fanfare compared to last night's spectacle.

Hawthorne immediately starts to protest when I lead him to the bar on the ground floor of the hotel called the Flight Deck.

"Relax, Hot Head," I say, rolling my eyes as I push the glass door open. Between him and Primrose, the hovering has become unbearable. I'm a grown man. I can monitor my own alcoholism, thanks. "Before we travel thirteen stories, let's see if she's even here first."

The bar is barren, the calm before the eleven o'clock storm of frustrated people who have missed their flights and drunkards fill the place. A man in a nice pair of pants, white dress shirt, and slim tie is bussing the bar counter.

"Evening, fellas," the bartender, whose name tag reads 'Blight', greets us. "What can I get ya?"

Involuntarily, I find myself perusing what the bar has to offer. There are a lot of things he could get me. A Bloody Mary to stop this pounding hangover that's been persisting all day. A gin and tonic to calm my delicate nerves. Bourbon to put the memories of the two dead brothers I used to get drinks with in this very bar out of my mind.

But I can feel Hawthorne's heated gaze boring holes into my back. I think of Prim, and how despite all of her nagging, all she wants is for me to be good again.

"Information," I answer finally. Shoving Katniss' photo in his face, I ask Blight if he's seen her at all within the last half hour.

Blight lazily pretends to consider giving my request a thought before he shrugs in mock defeat.

"Nah, hey, I just work here."

"Yeah no shit, Sherlock, that's why I'm asking you," I shoot back. God, I could really use a drink just to throw it in this idiot's face.

Blight volleys another smug grin across the counter.

"Memory gets a little foggy, you know how it goes," he says. Leaning on his bony elbows, he strokes his greasy little goatee before asking, "What's in it for me?"

Hawthorne and I pass our next thoughts between us in a quick glance, and I turn back to the cheeky bartender with a sickeningly sweet smile of my own.

"He'll stop doing it," I say, the thumb that sticks out of my cast pointed at Hawthorne. Gale eyes the little weasel with disdain, but doesn't move a muscle.

Blight laughs a little at the unmoving man beside me.

"Doing what?" he mocks.

Right on cue, Hawthorne grabs the unsuspecting bastard by the tie, yanks it forward, and slam's Blight's head against the counter.

"Ow! Fuck!"

"That," I answer his previous question referring to Hawthorne's kick-ass sneak attack.

"Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can…" Hawthorne stops himself for a moment, and then backtracks. "Actually, we're currently doing it the easy way."

Now sporting a nice-sized welt on his forehead, Blight holds up his hands.

"Alright, okay, _Jesus_. The penthouse. She's in the penthouse. Top floor — thirteenth. You happy?"

Now equipped with the confirming information we needed, we start to go.

"Yeah," I answer sardonically.

"Guys, guys, listen," Blight speaks up again, shelling out information like he runs an open bar tab. "You don't wanna go up there, alright? Trust me."

"Why not?" Hawthorne asks, the puny little weasel having peaked our interest as we start wandering back to the bar.

"These New York big-wigs are up there. Business people. They have fucking bodyguards and everything, the kind that have their, like, tongues removed so they can't talk. What's that called, again?"

"Being engaged?" Hawthorne supplies.

 _That's_ a stretch. I make a mental note to ask Hawthorne about that pointed statement later.

Blight nods. "Look, she's gonna come back down. Just chill here while you wait for her, have a couple of cold ones on me."

Before I can even open my mouth, Hawthorne has his arm out to stop me from storming the bar.

"No, thanks."

"You make a strong argument, though," I say to Blight.

"You see? Very reasonable, you two," Blight says, grabbing two clouded glasses and some beers anyway. "Now, your buddy? Not so reasonable."

"Our buddy?" Hawthorne asks, as perplexed by the bartender's words as I am.

"Yeah, we don't have any friends," I tack on.

Now it's Blight's turn to look confused.

"The other guy looking for Katniss. He wasn't with you?"

 _Other guy?_ There's another guy? My mind spins like a top just thinking about who this _other guy_ could be. But Hawthorne, on the other hand, seems to be less shocked by the new information than I am.

"Where'd he go?" Gale asks, voice still gravelly and calm like it usually is, as if he were asking the bartender a question as casual as where to find the bathroom.

"He got on the elevator. Right before you guys came in."

"Did you get a name?"

Blight pauses. "Uh, yeah. Cato, or something like that."

"And you're sure you witnessed him getting onto the elevator?"

"No, you fucking concussed me," Blight answers, voice laden with bitter sarcasm as he rubs the bump on his head. "Of course I witnessed it."

"What's going on?" I finally ask, pouncing on the opportunity to cut into the conversation as soon as my momentary stun will allow it.

Hawthorne shrugs and takes a pondering sip of his beer. My drink, meanwhile, goes untouched. The foam at the top of the glass spills over in fizzy puddles on the countertop.

"It just makes sense. Connects up," he says, still being too cryptic for my liking.

"What makes sense?"

"Cato. It's just something that Blue Face mentioned."

"What do you mean, mentioned, Hawthorne? Did he sit you down for an unbirthday tea party in fucking Wonderland or something?"

Hawthorne delivers a slanted smile. "No, no. Just, before he died, he mentioned it. You know, just the usual 'There's a guy coming to kill you' kind of crap."

" _Usual?"_ I squeak out. Katniss having hitmen I can handle, but a hitman after all of us is a different story. "There's a guy coming to kill us?!"

"Apparently," Hawthorne says, gesturing toward Blight, who now looks like he wants no part in the conversation.

"And you didn't think to say something? Fuck…You should have told me that before I agreed to rescue a moving target for a shitload of money!"

Hawthorne takes another swig of beer in his mouth, swishing it around and staring anywhere but at me.

"Didn't think it was real."

 _Real_. The world dances on my own tongue like bitter mockery. Primrose is now in danger. Real. It's my fault. Real.

Hawthorne knew and didn't tell me. Real.

I must be tripping on acid, because the only rational explanation for Hawthorne's ignorance can be that I am hallucinating. Blinking furiously, my hand comes slamming down on the countertop, landing in a warm pool of split beer.

"A man who tried to _kidnap a thirteen-year-old_ told you this with his dying breath, and you didn't think there was any validity to that statement? What the actual fuck were you thinking, Hawthorne?!"

"I was thinking about all of the people we have to protect now that we've gotten this far. I'm sorry for not telling you about it, alright? I didn't know what to do…" he says.

"Well I have a family I need to protect! Fuck this, I'm out of here…"

He grabs me by the shoulder and yanks me back before I can abandon him here, get to Prim, and skip out of town to be far, far away from this Cato.

"What about Katniss, huh? Who protects her?" he insists through gritted teeth. "Cato is up there right now with her. So, we could leave, because God knows it's the _safe_ thing to do. But you know what the _right_ thing to do is here, Mellark."

He's playing the one card he knows he can flash at me and blind me with. The one person who, time after time, causes me to abandon all of my senses and throw caution to the wind.

Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, worms her way back under the barbed wire fence encasing my heart.

"Fine, let's go do the _right_ thing," I grumble, mocking Hawthorne as I lead him out the door to the elevator.

"Really, you're actually gonna go up there? You two are a couple of idiots," Blight hollers after us. "Nice knowin' ya!"

"Wow, thank you, Blight. I'll be sure to have someone write you into my eulogy," I shout back, two middle fingers raised skyward and directed right at him.

Hawthorne pulls me into the elevator before the doors slide shut.

Neither of us says much as the car slowly climbs toward the thirteenth floor penthouse. Soft music plays, stifling the stale air in the cramped quarters.

Finally, unable to bear the impossibly slow contraption for another second, I speak up.

"An Avox."

Hawthorne peers over, eyeing me wearily. I can tell my the way his jaw clenches and his balled fists remain tightly at his sides that he's terrified of what waits for us upstairs, but would never openly admit it.

"What?"

"A guy who cuts his tongue out. Avox. From the Latin 'vox', meaning voice, and the German prefix 'a', or without. Without a voice. Avox."

Hawthorne grunts with polite mock interest. We resume the positions of two unqualified, scared shitless detectives staring at the doors and silently praying they won't slide open ever.

I've decided that I hate doing the right thing.

Several more agonizing seconds before Hawthorne clears his throat.

"Avox has to do with the Zodiac Aerospace group. It's some sort of company that makes oxygen masks that supply to planes, I think."

"Right," I say. I suddenly have lost the urge to fight with him on his seemingly never-ending quest to prove me wrong, even though I know I'm right.

What's the point of arguing when you're both about to come face to face with the man who has been hired to kill you?

"Hawthorne, were you engaged at one point?" I ask. He looks at me with incredulity, and I shrug. Anything to get my mind off of Cato the Killer.

"You're seriously going to ask me that right now?"

"I was just thinking back to your not-so-subtle, bitter joke about engagements leaving men voiceless in the bar," I say. "Seemed pretty pointed to me. Besides, you know some pretty choice information about _my_ past, so..."

Truth be told, I can't imagine this man without his trademark solitude and off-putting demeanor. The thought of him actually happy with someone else is intriguing, to say the least.

He nods, looking down at the floor.

"Yeah. Back in Chicago," he says wistfully. "Bonnie."

"What happened?"

Hawthorne looks back up, and I note that his eyes have gotten slightly cloudier with the faintest trace of emotion. That emotion being hurt.

"She was fucking my younger brother, Vick. Ran off to Montana with him."

I don't expect myself to get as angry as I do about this, but the rage hits me like a tidal wave, knocking me off my feet and pulling me under. The blood in my veins reheats at the thought of such an act of betrayal happening to my…associate.

But it's not like I feel for the guy because I care. I'd be this mad if it happened to anyone. We just work together. Hawthorne doesn't do friends. I definitely don't do friends — a friend is another person to add to the list of people I could lose.

We're _not_ friends.

Nevertheless, I should say something. He doesn't want me to feed into the anger, though, because that'll just lead to more feeling, which he in no way wants right now. He'd want me to remain calm, even-tempered, all while still showing him that I'm on his team.

"That sucks," I say, with all the equanimity I can muster.

He might be smiling. I can't tell. I'm a head shorter than he is.

Between the two of us, we suck all of the air out of the cabin when the bell above our heads _pings_ to indicate we've reached our destination, cutting the personal chat short.

"Alright," Hawthorne whispers, fingers curling around the gun secured to the holster on his belt. "Here we go."

The doors silently part as they slide into the walls, and even before we can spot anyone, we hear the sounds of someone violently choking and struggling for air.

My head, followed by Hawthorne's, pops out from behind the elevator to stare into the frantic eyes of a large, bald man who is clutching his throat. A throat that also happens to be spewing blood, spraying it all over the eggshell walls.

Catching our eyes, one of the man's arms reaches toward us, revealing the long slit running across his neck in a clean line.

He falls to the ground with a loud _thud_ and continues to flounder around on the carpet, a red stain growing beneath him.

Our heads snap to the other side of the hallway, where another man in a bright blue suit grunts as he stumbles backward, obviously having been pushed. Three bullets penetrate his chest, and he cries out with each hit.

My stomach sinks. If this is all the work of Cato, then he's already managed to kill everyone on this floor. Katniss is very much included in that number.

And if he finds us, we're next.

Wordlessly and entirely in-sync, Hawthorne and I take a step back into the elevator. He reaches forward and frantically pushes the 'Doors Close' button until we are safely sealed and descending.

The sound of glass shattering above us causes me to crouch and duck for cover behind Hawthorne. I'm convinced that one of us has just been shot, and that this is the end.

But through the safety of the elevator's glass wall, we turn and watch the blue-suit man scream and fall thirteen stories to his death.

I unravel myself from my position coiled around Hawthorne's torso and we revert back to our original mute positions, willing the doors to open and get us the hell out of here. We may as well have become honorary Avoxes.

The vibrations start in my toes, and travel all the way up to the ends of each hair on my head until every part of me is trembling.

All of my marbles are lost the moment we burst through the hotel doors.

"She's dead! That motherfucker killed her! She's dead!" I shriek, clutching fistfuls of my hair. My mind is racing at a million miles a minute, and I can't see straight.

Hawthorne rounds the hood of my car to the passenger's side door, shooting me a reassuring look that's supposed to calm me down somehow.

"Mellark, she might not be dead."

"How do you know that?" I cry at him as we get into the car, strap in and start down the road parallel to the side of the hotel. No matter how hard I try to control the wheel, my fingers keep slipping.

"We didn't see her die, so we can't know anything for sure — "

I reach over and whack him for once, and Hawthorne recoils in his seat with a satisfyingly stupid look on his stupid face. He needs to get some sense smacked into that thick skull of his.

"The bartender said it himself. She went up there, Cato followed her. We just witnessed a fucking blood sport up there, Hawthorne. One man did that! There's absolutely no way she could have survived! Start drafting up alibis for the grandfather, because we're going to jail, because Katniss is…"

At that very moment, a girl in a bright red, fiery dress lands bare feet first on the hood of my car. The tires screech on the asphalt beneath them as I slam on the breaks.

She looks a little roughened up, still in the same exact outfit she was wearing when we saw her last night and wavering while she catches her balance. But Katniss Everdeen is very much alive and on my car right now.

Her toes curl and she leans forward. She circles her arms to keep steady until she's finally standing up straight.

God, she's beautiful from this angle.

Her eyes, brilliant mercury orbs, snap up and meet mine for a harmonious moment of absolute peace. Something flickers between us, like an electrical current.

In a flash, her arm's reached behind her, pulled an arrow from a sheath that's been strapped to her the entire time, and raises a bow at my head.

She rears back, and then lets the arrow fly.

 _Snap! Whoosh!_

My front window shatters.

 _Boing!_

I scream in agony and my world goes black. I am half-expecting to wake up in a bed of clouds, having sprouted wings.

" _Fuck!_ I'm dead! It's so cold and dark! Is this Heaven? Aw, who am I kidding...I've fast-tracked it to hell and we all know it."

"Mellark," Gale voice rings through the screams.

"Great, Hawthorne's here. I really did end up in hell!"

" _Mellark,_ " he says again, more sternly. "Open your eyes, goddammit."

Slowly, the lids I didn't know had closed blink open to reveal the world just as I thought I left it.

I start to sit up, piecing together that I ducked just before the arrow could rip through my brain and split it in two. It quivers in the headrest of my seat.

When I look up, Katniss is still standing there, panting wildly.

But she isn't standing for very long, because the recoil from her arrow knocks her off kilter, and her eyes roll into the back of her head as she falls to the ground, unconscious.

Hawthorne and I wear mirroring expressions when we turn to look at each other.

"Well, that was a freebie," my associate declares, running out of the car to grab Katniss and lay her in the Cadillac's backseat before we speed off.

* * *

 **A/N: Hi! This is a bit of a filler chapter, but it was fun to write nonetheless because these scenes in the movie were so enjoyable. I hope you caught wind of some references to THG as well, some of which I do ask you to suspend your belief for. Avoxes did not exist in Los Angeles in 1977, and there aren't conveniently 13 floors in the Airport Hotel to match 13 districts (I'm an East Coast girl so my LA geography may also be very off). I'm using a little poetic licensing, and stuff like that will come up later in future chapters, but if you ever need things clarified, I've gotcha.**

 **Now Katniss is in the mix, and from here on out she will continue to play a major role in the fic!** **Let me know what you think in your reviews! I'd love to hear what you predict is next.**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	8. Seven: More Than A Feeling

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger Games_ , nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film _The Nice Guys._ All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Seven: More Than A Feeling *~*~*~***

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

I'm shocked to find a number of misplaced people in my house when the door of the rental home swings open.

First of all is Prim, who isn't supposed to be here. She's on the couch, sitting with her hands folded in her lap and legs shaking like she's anxious about something. Probably because she knows she shouldn't be here.

Second is Rue, whose house Prim is supposed to be at. Rue wears an identical expression to Prim and is most likely somewhat to blame for Prim being here instead of at her house.

And then there's Finnick Odair…and the fist he's lobbing at my face.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" the impassioned porn star cries out as I narrowly dodge his blow.

Like a whirling dervish, he keeps pacing around and gripping at whatever he can knock down. Prim flinches at the sound of furniture smashing, but given her animosity toward the rental home, she makes no attempt to stop him.

Odair continues to stalk around the living room with rage, hellbent on destruction. He's even thinner and paler than he was when I last saw him, as if all of the guilt and grief surrounding Annie is eating him from the inside out.

But just because he looks sick as a dog doesn't mean he gets to act like an animal in my house.

"Finnick! Pleasure to see you!" I greet him sardonically, edging another one of his wimpy punches for approaching him. He shouldn't quit his day job, that's for sure.

"We haven't heard from you in _days._ I opened up to you, I _trusted_ you, and so did Mags! But you got what you wanted from us, didn't you? Made a joke out of my Annie's death, and left with your payment," Finnick snarls, red-faced and vindictive. "Tell me, Mellark, did you ever have any intention of solving this case, or were you just looking to take advantage of…"

At this moment, Hawthorne emerges in the doorway, Katniss Everdeen's limp body draped over his broad shoulder.

"Oh."

Finnick's flapping mouth practically sews itself shut. Seeing her with us is a sign that I have indeed not abandoned this case. Rather, I eat, sleep, breath, and shit this case.

Eyebrows raised and smiling acerbically, I step aside to let Gale into the room with the injured girl — undoubtedly our key to finding out who murdered the beloved Annie — and peer over Hawthorne's shoulder at the mouthy adult entertainer.

"You done?" I ask him, and he nods. "Good."

With that problem settled, I move onto the next one.

"Prim, what are you doing here? I thought I told you to go to Rue's house. Not invite Rue over and let strangers into _our_ house."

Prim shrugs, pretending to play it off as cool around her friend and Odair, while Hawthorne inquires what we should do with the unconscious girl he is still holding.

I point toward Prim's bedroom to answer Gale's inquiry, but my eyes never leave my sister, who owes me a huge explanation.

Prim sighs dramatically. "I was going to Rue's, but her sister was having her boyfriend over, so she kicked us out."

That's all the explanation I need. This isn't the first time Rue's shown up on our doorstep due to one of her sister's boyfriends. This recent one has been a particular pain in the ass for all involved, and Rue's been stopping by more than ever before. I can't say I mind it. Usually, Prim's friends are scared to come here...or they're Bristel...but not Rue. The little girl with the mocha skin and warm brown eyes never really seems to mind our fucked up little family, and I'm grateful for her unwavering loyalty to Prim.

I scoff at the mentioning of Rue's sister.

"Ugh, Rue, your sister's such a slut," I mutter as I follow Hawthorne into Prim's room, sounding just like them when they smack talk the kids at school. Having been around the girls, their obsession with gossip, and their very distinctive teenage language, I guess I have subconsciously picked up on some of their dramatic tendencies.

"Yeah, she is," Rue agrees conspiratorially, her and Prim following me.

"And him? How'd he get in here? Magic?" I ask, pointing at Finnick, who has followed the girls into the now very crowded bedroom and is wringing his hands nervously at the doorway.

Again, Prim shrugs."He was waiting on the front step when we got back. He said he was friends with Annie, so I figured we could trust him."

"Well, he was about as friendly with Annie as Rue's sister is with her boyfriend, Prim," I inform her. Both of the girls' eyes go wide and their cheeks turn crimson with my hint toward the taboo topic. "So be careful about trusting people so quickly, alright?"

Odair flares with a rebuttal in defense of his love affair with the late Annie as he storms further into the room.

"How dare you! I _loved_ her!"

He looks like he has a few more choice words for me, but he manages to censor it. Remembering how he falsely accused me of ripping Mags off, and how he's in the presence of a couple of impressionable youngsters, he makes the smart move to stay quiet in my house.

"So, you and Annie were a couple, and stuff?" Prim asks with genuine vested interest, turning to Finnick.

Odair nods solemnly at her, and I cut in with an annoyed growl, "Prim, nix the 'and stuff'. Just ask Mister Odair if he and Annie were a couple."

"Why do you always have to correct what I say? It's so annoying," my sister mutters, acting like speaking properly is a crime. This earns a laugh from Rue, which she stifles in her elbow once I shoot them a warning glance.

"Because smart college girls do not say 'and stuff', alright?"

"I'm thirteen! I'm not even supposed to be thinking about college yet!"

"My mom has all my siblings practice for the SATs every weekend starting in fourth grade," Rue chimes in. "We usually aren't allowed out on weekends."

"Wow, you all must be bored as hell...it's no wonder your sister's a slut," Gale grumbles. Staying in on the weekends to study probably sounds like the stuff of nightmares for someone who grew up on the busy streets of Chicago.

"You know, everyone, slut is a very derogatory term in my profession…" Finnick whines.

Meanwhile, while the rest of us are fully engaged in the topic of sluts around her, Katniss Everdeen groans to life when no one is paying attention.

"Hey, look! She's waking up!" Rue announces, pointing at the squirming figure below us.

Her mercury eyes are bleary when they slowly slide open. Mutely, she blinks in confusion, her expression as befuddled as anyone in an unfamiliar thirteen-year-old's bedroom with four strangers and a porn star staring down at her would look.

"Good morning, Sweetheart," I say jokingly, an involuntary grin spreading over my face.

And, just as I expected she would, she does what she does best: with a strangled cry, Katniss leaps from the bed and tries to flee.

Being closest to the door, I'm blocking her exit route before anyone else can act on it. Releasing a loud grunt, she barrels into me with a mighty force that sends us both stumbling. My back slams against the wall, and her hands are firmly planted on my chest. Breathing heavily, her startled eyes meet mine.

It's a dream I may have had once or twice. Me pinned up by her, and her all hot and bothered and _staring_ at me with those eyes…eyes that even my dreams couldn't do proper justice to conjure up. It's like staring into two endless pools of liquified silver.

Something close to an electrical field sparks between us, but it isn't until the girl pressed up to me jabs her arm into my throat that I realize this spark is one of pure rage.

"What the hell do you want from me? First you try to follow me and now you kidnap me? Is that how you wanna play, creep? Huh?" Katniss spits accusingly.

It's the first words she'll ever say to me, and it is with horrible shame that I almost find them endearing.

But I'm pretty sure I owe that judgment call to the lack of circulation making it up to my brain — you know, since she's choking me and all.

This is certainly not the girl of my dreams. That girl was much friendlier.

"Stop it! Stop it!" Hawthorne shouts, his arm swirling around her torso and pulling her away from me.

Katniss still spews a stream of taunts and curses in my direction as Hawthorne and Odair work to detain her and get her back atop Prim's frilly comforter.

"He's trying to kill me!" Katniss screams, pointing an incriminating finger at me.

"If anything, he's kept you alive, Catnip," Hawthorne counters, taking her by the wrists and pinning them above her head on Prim's mountain of pillows with just one of his large hands, rendering Katniss' struggle useless. She growls at Hawthorne's use of the sly nickname.

"What are _you_ doing with him?" she scolds Hawthorne for being a traitor, seeing as she hired him to take care of her problems with me. "You promised me that you would get rid of him for me! I _paid_ you to get rid of him for me! You're a liar!"

"And I did exactly what you paid me to do. Look at his arm," Hawthorne replies, gesturing at my cast, which I instantly try hiding with quiet embarrassment.

"Can it, Hawthorne."

"But we're partners now," Gale says simply, as if that should explain everything to the distraught woman wriggling under his strong grasp. "…This of course happened after I beat the shit out of him. We partnered up in order to find you, actually."

Katniss' nose crinkles, and her dismayed eyes wander questioningly from where Gale sits at her bedside and I lean against the wall I was assaulted on for balance.

Beyond the agreement of these two days, Hawthorne and I really haven't defined our personal or professional relationship. Regardless of what we called ourselves, be it partners, temporary associates, or even comrades, she was always the goal...but how do you tell someone that without sounding homicidal?

"It's complicated," is all I can muster as clarification.

Wrenching her whole body violently toward where Finnick stands on the other side of the bed, she narrows her eyes at him.

"And you? After all those assholes did to Annie…"

"Katniss, just listen to these two," Finnick pleads, holding up his shaking, bony hands. "They're the good guys."

Both Katniss and I guffaw loudly at this statement. Good? Mags is good. Prim is _good._ I think Mister Odair must have his definition of 'good' mixed up with something entirely different if he thinks Hard-Ass Hawthorne and The Walking Accident are _good_.

"With everyone watching, someone will notice I'm gone," Katniss says cryptically to her fellow porn star. "It's too risky."

"Risky?" I scoff, "We were hired to keep you safe!"

Her dark eyebrows come together at the center of her forehead.

"By who?"

"Your grandfather. Snow," Gale supplies.

Like a rubber band that has been pulled too hard, Katniss snaps. She breaks free from Gale's gasp, grabs the sheath of arrows laying on the floor beside the bed, and sprints to the door again. This time, Prim and Rue form a human barricade at the exit, arms folded identically over their chests and bravery painted on their young faces.

Katniss, knowing that she can't go attacking little girls, staggers around aimlessly on her bare feet. She is at a complete loss as to what move she should make next, and it's the first crack in her armor that she's managed to reveal to us.

"I have to go. Please, I can't be here. I need to leave. There's a plan, and I — I…I am the Mockingjay!"

To her, this information should be her ticket to us allowing her to start running away and making deals in shady hotel rooms again. To her, this is the most important piece of information she could give us.

To me, it all sounds like your typical self-righteous environmentalist jargon.

"Unfortunately, Madame Mockingjay, we have strict orders to get you back home and safe to your grandfather," I inform her, using her self-proclaimed status in the most dismissive tone I can and earning a snarky scowl for it.

When it becomes clear that none of us are letting her leave anytime soon, she flops back down on Prim's bed with a huff. Burying her head in her hands, she begins to cry out of frustration. Loud, ugly sobs tumbling from lips that twist around unheard screams of protest.

She looks just like Prim when she gets upset. It's very humanizing. Maybe this rebellious robot has a heart after all. Maybe the girl of my dreams really is in there somewhere.

I look across the room at my sister, who eyes Katniss with all the sympathy in the world. It's neither here nor there to Prim if the girl did try to strangle her brother less than ten minutes ago; Prim just sees someone hurting and immediately has to nurse them back to health.

Prim senses me staring at her and looks up at me as if to say, _Do something._

That's the problem. I've never been very good at doing something.

"Um…" I start out lamely, getting everyone's attention. Katniss' calculating gray orbs snap up at me, and even though the river of tears, I can clearly read her distrust.

"Is anyone hungry?"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Once the first batch of Dad's infamous Double Dark Chocolate Chunk Brownies has been devoured, Katniss starts forcing her smiles around me. There's no conflict a little sugar and chocolate can't diffuse. I learned that pretty quickly, growing up in a house where baking is pretty much what kept a loveless marriage together.

I suppose that to Katniss, baking her these treats is my own symbol of humanization. I don't typically revert to the old family recipe book. Not unless I find that I really need it, then it becomes personal therapy. The thought of doing the one thing I've ever been remotely gifted at just dredges up too much.

But lately, with my stress levels being what they are, I've found myself in this kitchen more and more. Donning my 'Kiss the Cook' apron from Prim while stirring batter and kneading dough is the closest to sane I can get nowadays.

Katniss Everdeen senses this, I think. That manages to make it a little easier to breathe in this house.

I'm pulling a tray of cheese buns out of the oven when she finally speaks up from her station by the counter. She must also realize she has little choice of anything else, with Finnick and Gale flanking her on either side and Prim and Rue pacing wearily by the front and back doors.

"My grandfather is a criminal," she says, voice low and acidic as she picks at a hangnail on the cuticle of her thumb. "He's one of _them_."

"What is 'them'?" Hawthorne asks, resting his palms on his knees and leaning forward in his seat.

Katniss eyes him incredulously.

"One of the… _insiders_. One of the Capitalist, corporate suppressors!" she says. Every word that comes from her mouth drips with vehement scorn for the man who claims to have stepped in for a paternal figure in her messy life.

This is apparently a topic that she can get extremely worked up about, as she starts spewing her hatred freely, only pausing to catch her breath and grab a cheese bun from the steaming pile on the plate I've put before her.

She moans with satisfaction into the bite of warm dough and gooey cheese, and it's music to my ears.

"You know that they just want us all dead, right?" she claims through a mouthful of pastry crust. "They had no problem killing off Annie, and then Cinna, and Plutarch…If you think for one second that they'll ever treat us fairly, then you're lying to yourselves — oh, my _God…_ these cheese buns are _amazing —_ We're in their cross-hairs…just a bunch of _pieces_ in their game!"

Like a dissatisfied child, she takes a break from shouting ardent fragments and stuffs the rest of the cheese bun into her mouth. Once she finishes her very slow, savoring bites, she groans and bangs her head on the countertop just to further emphasize her point of contention.

It's all very interesting information, but one look exchanged with Hawthorne tells me that we need more of it to really know the story.

"Would you mind starting from the beginning?" Gale asks, tapping Katniss on the shoulder.

With a dramatic sigh, she raises her head and throws up her hands.

"Okay, okay! I made a film! I made a film with my friend Cinna, Annie Cresta, and some other actors who are sick and tired of being suppressed. It was propaganda…propo, for short. The idea was that we were gonna…you know, make this…" her eyes shift nervously toward Prim. " _Experimental_ film. An artistic film."

I wipe my flour-covered hands on my apron and clear my throat.

"Porno film?" I ask, much to her vexation. Just trying to insure that I'm getting all the information correct, here.

Katniss' fist comes slamming down on the table with surprising force. The plate of cheese buns rattles on the counter. Finicky Finnick jumps.

"That's just a commercial element, okay? Plutarch said we needed to have that! Okay?! " she shouts at me, voice rising in pitch and volume as she condemns me. A crimson blush blooms over her cheeks and neck.

All this shouting is making it very clear that she's being defensive because she's embarrassed. I stifle a laugh at this unexpected trait. She's so…pure.

"Okay, okay," I digress, my laughter now very thinly-veiled.

This only eggs her anger toward me on. She's apparently already branded me as Bad Cop to Hawthorne's Good Cop, and it causes me to bristle with frustrations of my own.

"The reality was: we were getting our message out there!" Katniss fires at us. "It was all in the film…names, dates…everything that my grandfather was doing with Capitol Vehicles behind closed doors. And once it was out there, once it was in theaters, there's no way that they could suppress it any longer. There's no way that they could cover up the death and deception…Everyone will know who they are, and what they do, and people will fight back. They can lie to us and cheat us and burn this city to the ground, but fire is catching, and if we burn, they will burn with us!"

The room falls silent, and other than the sounds of Katniss' labored breaths, you could hear a pin drop.

It's a lot to take in.

Prim clutches Rue, buying into every one of Everdeen's passionate words. Hawthorne just sits there slack-jawed while Finnick starts tying knots into the frayed edges of my tablecloth — most likely to distract himself from thoughts of Annie and her role in this propaganda spectacle.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I take another look at the beautiful, albeit very loose-cannon, girl in before me. Her hair's a mess, her knuckles are blanched from grasping the edge of the counter so tightly, and her eyes burn with an indistinguishable fire.

And in my gut, I know she must be telling the truth. These surreptitious family secrets — her grandfather's collusion with Capitol and the lengths gone to keep their reputations clean — are just so crazy that they have to be true.

But I'm still hung up by one crucial detail.

"So…you made a porn film where the point was the plot," I summarize finally, after all the ranting and raving seems to have come to an end.

This strikes a chord within the performers in the room. Nick O looks up weakly, too resigned to his sorrow to even argue the validity of pornography. Katniss, meanwhile, looks like she wants to rip all of the gorgeous raven-colored hair out of her head.

"What is your hangup, dude?"

"He's an eternal pessimist," Primrose decides that _now_ is an appropriate time to chime in. "You'll learn to get used to it."

"That's true," Hawthorne agrees, jumping onto the 'Let's Rag on Peeta' float for a parade honoring the Irrelevant Information Party.

"I'm only saying, your family has enough money, so why not use it for something more practical? Why not just go to the media and tell them what was going on? Instead of stripping down and saying cheesy lines that are leaden with innuendoes…"

"That's _not_ what we did," Katniss protests through gritted teeth.

"That's exactly what you did," I retort. "It just seems like a weak move, is all."

"It's _not_ weak! That commercial element may have made the propo more desirable, but we were making art."

"You made porn," I shoot back, ripping my apron off and abandoning it on the counter as I come around to stand dangerously close to her. "Art is a painting, or a sculpture, or even a cake…you made a porno and decided to pass it off as propaganda, so just admit that, and then we can move onto the next step and help you out…"

"Which is what, exactly? You dragging me back to Grandfather and getting the money he promised you?" she jabs. "I know he paid you off. You don't want to help me. You don't care if I live or die, or if Capitol gets away with everything and this smog kills us all…so long as you get your cut of the profit —"

"Well, I suppose that my motives may seem suspicious, coming from someone who probably hasn't worked a day in her life to earn her fortune," I say pointedly.

"Fuck you," she snarls. "Why don't you just kill me now and get it over with? There are people looking for me, and they'll come for all of you if you keep me here."

"I don't want you to die, Katniss," I tell her. "None of us do. But you need to work with us here, instead of running away from everything…we have to be allies…"

She scoffs at the very thought of us being anything remotely close to allies — thus officially pulverizing the final shards of the idealized version of her I'd been putting up on a pedestal once and for all.

"Yeah, ally. I'll add that one to my list of words I've been using to try and figure you out," Katniss hisses, rising from her stool. Hawthorne and Odair immediately go to hold her back.

Meanwhile, I feel a slender arm jut out in in front of my stomach. When I look down, Prim has moved to block my advances toward her. My sister's expression tells me to end this, before it ends in a screaming match.

My eyes lock with the girl who watches me with utter disdain, and I feel that electrical pull between us once more. But rather than igniting me with life like it used to, it zaps me with the torturous reminder of just how fundamentally different we actually are.

Suddenly, the smell of brownies and cheese buns makes me sick.

I grumble a weak statement of momentary contrition before I push past Prim and go out to the backyard to have a smoke.

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

Once Mellark and Katniss have been placated in their separate corners of the boxing ring, I call Madge, who had called and left a message on my machine this morning to give me her number in case we found anything on Katniss.

I didn't want to call unless I had good news.

Madge answers almost immediately.

"Gale," my name on her breath sends my heart racing and the heated knot in my stomach constricting.

"We have her, Madge," I tell her. "She's a little worked up, and has got some cuts and bruises here and there, but she's safe and sound."

A meek cry of relief can be heard from the other line.

"Where are you now?"

"At Mellark's. Katniss is resting in his sister's room," I answer. I can hear a pen scratching on paper as she diligently writes his address down after I've given it to her.

"Excellent, I'll let Grandfather's assistant know and he'll send the family doctor over to make sure she's alright." There is a short pause before she proceeds. "In the meantime, Grandfather asked for you and Peeta to come back to his office. He has something to offer Katniss. He says it's a peace offering, to urge her to want to come home."

I tell we'll be right over to retrieve the package in fifteen minutes, traffic permitting.

"Gale, I just have to offer you my sincerest thanks. For finding Katniss, for keeping her safe…it's not often you find such good people in the world. I just don't know what I could do to make it up to you."

My chest swells with pride. That alone is all I need from her.

"You don't have to do anything. I'm happy to help in any way I can, Madge."

Grabbing my jacket and my keys, I hang the phone up on the wall receiver and head to the living room where Mellark sits with his sister, Rue, and Finnick to inform him of our next part of the mission.

"You want to go back to Snow?" Mellark sputters. "After Everdeen practically told us he kills whoever knows too much information?"

"Well, the jury's still out on who to actually believe in this scenario," I reply, jamming my hands into my pants pockets.

"Katniss isn't a write off," Mellark says, hunching forward. "She's a fucking piece of work, but she could be telling the truth."

He's not wrong there. The way Katniss spoke earlier made it seem pretty damn certain that she was fighting for _something_. But Snow, with his main objective being Katniss' safety, could also be conveying his version of the events.

"Or maybe they're both telling the truth."

Mellark's brow furrows. "Huh? What do you mean they're _both_ telling the truth?"

"I know a guy, Thom," I say, recalling the anecdote Thom once told Haymitch and I during final call at the Victor. "Worked in the Secret Service for a while on the Nixon detail — after he was thrown out of office. Once they were driving around and they came across this terrible car accident. Guy was pinned under his car. Anyway, they pull over. Nixon gets out, leans down to check on the guy, and says to him, 'You're gonna be okay, son. You're gonna be okay'. Right then, guy dies."

After a very prolonged silence, Mellark scrunches his nose.

"I don't get it."

"Think about it from the guy who died's point of view," I say. "He's lying on the ground, staring up at the sky, near death…and then former President Nixon appears before him and tells him it's all gonna be fine. Does he think that's normal? Does everyone see a former President before they die?"

"You're expecting an angel and get Richard Nixon," Mellark supplies.

I nod. "Same situation. Two vastly different points of view."

"…There's two ways to look at something, is that the point?"

"Yeah."

"Then just say that, instead of leading me on some long fucking epic journey for ten minutes when the point is that there's two sides to a story."

On my forehead, I can feel my eyebrows arch in a challenging manner.

"You didn't get anything from that story?"

Mellark sighs, resigned to this new, inconveniently placed obstacle in the crux of our plans. It becomes apparent that as much as he'd like to argue for the last word, all of his fighting with Katniss has exhausted his firing engines for the night.

"Well, this sounds like it's a one man job, anyway," Mellark observes. "You go and sign the Peace Treaty, or whatever. I'll stay here and wait for the doctor, since I've got the Traveling Porno Palooza in my house."

Finnick, who has decided for himself that he is safer hiding out here, sends Mellark a look from the arm chair he's curled up in, but ultimately elects to say nothing.

"Is it safe?" Prim inquires, tearing her eyes away from the television program she and Rue have been engrossed in. I didn't even realize she could have been listening to this whole exchange until now. "I could come with you."

Mellark snorts and tightens his grip around her slim shoulders.

"Fat chance," he tells her. "Besides, I'm sure if anyone pops out and chases him, Hawthorne can outrun them."

"Well, who's gonna protect us if someone comes?" Prim asks.

Mellark blinks. "Finnick," he supplies sarcastically.

Prim turns to me with a wide-eyed, pleading stare.

"Please don't leave us!" Prim insists.

When the agreement that I'll be back in an hour is settled Prim's sanity's sake, I start off.

The roads are clear and the highway is practically empty as I cruise at a speed much higher than the designated limit, letting the sky and the road blur together in my rearview mirror.

And for a brief moment, the world is at peace. There aren't killing machines on the loose or dead bodies to be accounted for or rebellious heiresses and their grandfathers. Most noticeably, there's nobody beside me to slow the job down or put us further out onto the line of danger.

It's just me, this car, and the open road.

I would have expected this to grant me the serenity I thought I would need after too much time spent without the comfort of solitude, but it's shockingly having the opposite effect. I am hyper-aware of just how alone I am, and it makes me somewhat anxious, which is unnerving. Have I really gotten used to being someone's cohort in just two short days?

My nerves are standing on their ends until I pull up to the Justice Building and find Madge waiting at the door.

"Oh, thank God you're here!" she says, throwing her lithe arms around my neck and squeezing my body tightly against hers. She reaches up, grabbing the sides of my face, and practically crushes my mouth in a kiss. She tastes sweet, like strawberries.

Taking my hand in hers, she leads me down the dark corridors of the Building until we've reached the dimly lit office of Coriolanus Snow, who is nowhere in sight.

"Grandfather wasn't feeling well, so he went home. He left me to wait with the gift for Katniss." Her blonde eyebrows knit together as she peers over my shoulder. "Where is your partner?"

"Decided to stay back," I tell her. "I told him I'd be back in an hour."

Madge grins. Reaching one hand into her grandfather's top desk drawer, she pulls out a bunched up piece of fabric, saunters up to me, and tucks it into the breast pocket of my jacket.

"I was secretly hoping you'd come alone," she whispers seductively, eyes flashing with the heady lust I remember all too well from the party before she walks away from me.

When I grab the gift she's left for _me_ in my pocket — her lace panties — my mouth immediately hangs open in shock.

By the time I look up, Madge has seated herself on the edge of her grandfather's mahogany desk, legs spread just wide enough to allow me a preview of what's under her skirt.

"Here?" is the one word I manage to choke out. It's one of the most powerful men in the city's office. We could get caught, and if we do, I'll be in deep shit.

Madge shrugs, crossing her arms to grab the hem of her tight sweater and pulling the confining garment over her head, revealing a bright red bra that matches the underwear in my hand. I lick my lips.

"You said you have an hour," she says, in a matter-of-fact way that's impossible to resist. "And I think I've figured out a way to repay you for all of the hard work you've been doing. Now, Mister Hawthorne, do you want to fuck me on my grandfather's desk, or not?"

Grinning, I drop the lacy garment on the floor and rush over to her in two quick strides. I lean in and kiss her deeply while palming her breasts. I feel her breathy moan fill my mouth.

The next hour flies by.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The desk groans beneath us as I pound into Madge from behind. The sounds of our sweaty bodies slapping together, my grunts, and her crying out each time I piston into her are the only noises filling the building.

"You feel so good," I say, although it comes out as more of a low rumble in my throat. One of my hands tangles in her hair while the other reaches around in front of her to pinch and roll her nipples between my fingers.

Madge keens at my ministrations. She's close, I can tell. With the sight of her ass bobbing up and down on my cock like this, I'm not too far behind.

"Gale, oh shit," she cries, throwing her head back to stare up at the ceiling with hooded eyes. "I'm going to…"

Madge grips the desk with both of her hands as she reaches her peak, and I follow shortly after several thrusts into her tight, fluttering walls.

It's the perfect release — both literally and figuratively. Being with Madge has offered me a brief reprieve from the stress and anxiety of a case that's far from over, and the distraction is just enough to allow me to forget my mounting responsibilities for a moment and recall what pleasure feels like.

With a satisfied mewl, Madge falls flat onto the desktop, which is now slicked with streaks of sweat and arousal. I collapse on top of her, both of us breathing heavily. We ride out our respective highs for a minute before I pull out of her, fingers grazing the hips I certainly bruised from my ironclad grasp on them just moments before.

Wisps of golden hair sticking to her forehead and eyes shining mischievously, Madge turns back around. My fingers trace the places on her pale neck where I have left my mark. Giggling, she pulls my body flush against hers for another kiss.

"We can't tell Grandfather about this," she murmurs, smirking into our kiss. "If he asks, I just did my job tonight."

"Mm, and you did it _extremely_ well," I say with a wink, chest still rising and falling in search of breath.

Her laugh is airy and light.

"I'll go get Katniss' gift. It's in the next room over," she says, shimmying back into her skirt and winking mischievously. God, how does she manage to drive me wild like this?

She disappears for a moment as I continue to get dressed. I glance at the clock, which shows a time dangerously inching toward my hourly limit. My promise to Prim hangs above my head like a storm cloud.

But when I close my eyes, stars dance in my vision and I forget all about the concept of time.

Madge returns with a small white box, tied together with a golden ribbon with a white rose attached to it.

"It's a Mockingjay pin," she explains as I weigh the light package in my hands. I recognize the strange name from Katniss declaring herself the Mockingjay earlier tonight. "It is a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation."

"What is a Mockingjay exactly, Madge?" I inquire, coming up short as I try to conjure up an image of the word. "I've never heard of it."

"Probably because they don't really exist. The Mockingjay is a silly creature from an old folktale from our childhood, about a bird that could copy any song it heard," Madge elaborates. "The bird was never supposed to survive this great war thousands of years ago, but as the story goes, the Mockingjay rose from the ashes and lived on. Katniss' father used to call her a Mockingjay. Grandfather wanted to give the pin to Katniss, but he wanted to wait until she was ready."

So that's what Katniss has likened herself to. Not the pigeons and crows that fly around in our world and choke on the smog, but a bird from a story her father used to tell her.

With sudden trepidation, Madge steps up to where I'm standing with the treasured parcel and clasps her hands over mine, her blue eyes shimmering with a fresh batch of tears.

"Promise me you'll get this to Katniss, and make sure that only she has it at all times," she implores, voice thick with emotion. "It is very important to our family."

Tipping her chin up toward me so that she can look into my eyes, I press another kiss, hard and fast, on her lips.

"I promise."

As I speed home, box containing the precious Mockingjay pin nestled safely in the passenger seat beside me, I hope that this promise is one that I can keep.

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

I'm about to rip Hawthorne's pretty face off for scaring my sister shitless and returning twenty minutes later than his promised return time when I hear the three methodical knocks on my front door.

Grumbling as I push myself off the couch, I go to the door with clenched knuckles and a squared jaw. Prim follows behind, like a worried duckling, which is what she used to do with me in the bakery when we were younger, hence dubbing her Little Duck.

"Dammit, Hawthorne," I grumble, noting how Prim's nearly worried sick over him, as I wrench the front handle toward us.

But Gale isn't on the other side of my door. A tall, robust man with a wrinkle-less three piece suit stares back at me with the listless blue eyes of an automaton.

And then suddenly, he snaps to life.

"You must be Peeta Mellark," he says, extending hand toward me, which is encased by a black leather glove. "I'm Doctor Malvern."

My blood runs cold as our hands lock. All it took was for him to open his mouth for me to know that this man isn't Doctor Malvern.

This is Cato.

He smiles mirthlessly. "Katniss is inside, correct? May I come in?"

My mind scrambles for the best plan of action. I consider just shutting the door in his face and escaping with everyone into the forest Everdeen-style, but knowing what I know about this man leads me to believe that the gesture wouldn't bode well with him. Besides, he'd end up finding us anyway. Just a hunch.

"Yes, come in," a voice behind me chirps, allowing Cato to step foot into the rental home.

Still frozen in my position at the door, I whirl around to look at my sister, who watches the hulking man glide past her with suspicion, and then stares at me knowingly.

She's playing along, I realize.

Prim nods tersely, telling me what I need to know. We have to work together. If she can keep stalling, then I might be able to come up with something that will get us all out of here alive.

"How's our patient?" Cato asks, slithering through the foyer into the living room. He points to the back of Rue's curly-haired head. "Is that her?"

Rue barely looks up at him with her unsuspecting brown eyes before reverting her attention back to the phone conversation she's having while simultaneously watching TV.

"No, that's just Rue," Prim says dismissively. "What she has, you can't fix."

My sister laughs, and 'Doctor Malvern' joins in with staccato chuckles that feel almost programmed.

"You are very funny, Nurse Primrose," he says mirthlessly, further confirming my suspicion that he's part robot.

Meanwhile, my head is spinning. I'm here, about ten paces from the kitchen, where the cookie jar with my handgun is set on the counter. Katniss is in the furthest room down the hall. That room is about seven seconds away from where we all stand in the living room now, and that's at a walking pace. If I could somehow get to the gun and keep Cato sequestered to the living room, then Prim, Rue, and Finnick could take Katniss and sneak out the back…

I'm jostled back to life by the sound of my sister's voice calling out my name. How long she's been keeping him occupied with mindless chatter, I'm unsure.

"Peeta?" Prim says, barely concealing the vibrato in her nervous tone. "I was just asking Doctor Malvern if he'd like a cheese bun."

"Oh," I say, feeling my dry throat cracking.

It's an excuse to get me into the kitchen. While I make my way toward the cookie jar, I keep my eyes trained on Cato as he stares at my sister like a fucking meal. She turns to Cato and sends him a tight-lipped smile, tucking her shaking hands into the pockets of her overalls.

"They're fresh baked. Just came out of the oven."

"No, there's none left," Rue challenges, abandoning her phone call to point this out. She is still oblivious to the red hot danger zone she's standing in the middle of. "Katniss ate them all, remember?"

Prim shakes her head furiously. Three more paces to get to the cookie jar…

"There's a couple left…" Prim insists. Desperately eyeing the man that towers above her, she makes the offer again. "Doctor?"

Cato slowly turns, spotting the hallway and the sliver of light coming from under Prim's closed bedroom door. With as close as his tight face can get to a grin, he starts toward the hallway.

I lift the lid of the jar as quietly as possible, my finger latching to the gun's trigger inside the ceramic walls concealing the weapon.

"Perhaps I could be persuaded," Cato muses. "After I have a look at Sleeping Beauty…"

With very little time left before he can get close to Katniss, Prim looks to me, and I lock the semi-automatic pistol into the ready position. When Cato turns at the sound, he stares from across the room at the barrel of my gun, with me in standing readily behind it.

Slowly, Cato raises his hands toward the ceiling and lets the briefcase in his hand fall to the ground with a loud bang that snaps everyone in the room to attention. Rue drops telephone, letting it dangle from the cord on the wall, and stands, a startled cry falling from her lips.

Cato simply stares. He's caught, and he knows it.

But judging by the way he smiles at me, I think he must have wanted this all along.

"Oh, Mellark siblings. I knew you'd be trouble," Cato says, his voice a low grumble that whirs and hums with tormented pleasure.

Finnick, now on full alert in his chair, looks at me with wild eyes.

"Peeta, what are you doing?"

I haven't gotten that far yet.

"Are you crazy?" Odair cries out again.

I just might be.

Disregarding Finnick's commentary, I take a step forward and hold the gun steady, acting like I have this all figured out — instead of shitting myself like I want to.

"There's handcuffs behind the bar, Asshole," I say threateningly. "Get them."

Cato looks at the watch strapped to his wrist and sighs.

"This is really slowing me down, Mellark."

"What's going on?" Rue shouts.

"It's him. He's Cato," Prim informs her friend, standing close behind me with a frying pan as a reinforcement. Cato's hands fall to his sides. No longer does he have to keep up the charade.

"Rue," Cato barks suddenly. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a sharpened razor blade. "If you help me with this, you get to stay out of the order."

"W-What order?" Rue asks, terrified.

With a sickening smile, Cato doesn't even so much as look at Rue when he adds, "It's supposed to go in order. First, I kill Katniss. Then, Big Brother. Then, Little Sister. Then, the hitman. No one intervenes."

I take another step forward. That won't be the order. There won't even be an order, if I have anything to say about it.

"Rue, dial 9-1-1," I demand, eyes trained on the glistening edge of Cato's razor.

Rue starts for the phone.

"Rue…" Cato warns, his tone rising as his fury with being slowed down mounts.

Conflict flashes in the young girl's eyes. It's our lives or hers. That is what Cato's ultimatum boils down to.

The sound of tires rolling up the driveway and headlights washing over the walls causes chaos to erupt.

Rue tries to make an escape by running through the space left between myself and Cato, but the ruthless machine grabs her by the middle and throws her through the front window. Glass shatters around Rue's body as she flies through the window and lands in the front yard.

I shout at Finnick to go, and he grabs Prim by the wrist, dragging her down the hall to hide with Katniss just as I shoot at Cato. He dodges my bullet and charges at me, slicing my leg with the razor.

Cato's jumping through the broken window and rushing to his car as I fall to my knees from the shock and pain of my injury. Outside, I can hear Hawthorne asking Cato who the hell he is before the sounds of machine gun fire ring out.

That is rivaled by the sounds of four calculated shots punctuating the jackhammer percussion of the machine gun and their shells clattering in the street. If anyone's a worthy match for this asshole, it's Hawthorne.

Pulling myself back up to my feet (He barely managed to break the skin, and my reaction, I conclude, was caused by the shock of being so close to the knife more than actual pain), I rush through the window and lift an unconscious Rue over my shoulder — all while avoiding the gunfire that rains on the rental home.

"Prim!" I call out as I hurry to the back bedroom with Rue.

"Peeta!" my sister screams, appearing at the end of the hall, my gun clasped in her hands. Eyeing Rue with guilt and worry, she asks, "Is she okay?"

"She's fine. She just won't be allowed over until you graduate. Get in the closet," I demand, pulling Prim back into the room.

Katniss, now wide awake, stands pressed up against Finnick in Prim's tiny closet.

"What the fuck is happening?" she screams at the top of her lungs.

"Jesus!" I yell over the shooting. "Watch your mouth! There are kids here!"

Katniss apologizes as she corrals Prim into the closet and wedges her in between Finnick and herself. I hand Rue over to Katniss, who lays her down gently on the closet floor with her arms folded over her chest. Other than the scratched-up face that pinches in pain, the kid looks dead, and it makes my stomach turn.

More bullets ricochet off of the house. Prim whimpers, eyes shut tightly. I know that she reliving the last time tragedy struck her home, the last time her life hung in the balance and it was up to me to save her and everyone else trapped inside a burning house.

Pulling my sister into a hug, I kiss the top of her head.

"We're going to be okay, real or not real?" Prim asks, eyes watery and filled with dread.

"Real," Katniss says before I can. Her steely gray eyes meet mine for a brief moment before she rubs my sister's back soothingly and leads her out of my arms to return to the closet. "I won't let anything happen to you while your brother is helping Mister Hawthorne."

I give myself a moment to be knocked off of my feet by the gesture from a girl who was my sworn enemy just hours ago before I spring back into action. Grabbing the closet door, I begin to slide it shut.

"Stay here, alright? None of you move…"

Everyone seems to be down with this plan, except for a certain X-rated actor who's been deteriorating from the moment I first met him.

"You!" Odair cries, pointing an incriminating finger at Katniss. "You're responsible for all of this! Cinna, Plutarch…they're all dead because of you! You killed Annie — _my Annie_ — and now, you're going to get everyone else killed!"

His eyes are unfocused, crazed. They land on the window at the other side of the room and he sprints to it.

"Finnick! Where are you going?" Prim screams. "Stay with us!"

Finnick pays her and her pleas to stay back no attention. Shoving Prim's pink curtains aside, he pushes the window open to create more room for his lean body and crouches on the ledge. He peers over his shoulder at us, and his sickly green face twists in a melancholy countenance.

"Thanks for nothing," Finnick says to me before jumping from the window and disappearing into the night.

Prim starts crying, imploring us to bring him back, but I shake my head. There's nothing we can do. Katniss pulls Prim against her and lets my sister sob into her chest.

Tossing my pistol to me, Katniss mouths over Prim's head, 'Go'.

I bolt back down the hall to assist Hawthorne, who's surprisingly managed to hold his own in the shootout with Cato.

The menacing killer seems to be carrying an endless supply of high-end weaponry in the trunk of his car, and with each machine gun that runs out of ammunition, he's armed and ready with another. Bullet holes decorate the exterior of the rental home when I poke my head out the door and fire some blind shots in Cato's direction.

Hawthorne slams against the side of the house under the window where Rue was propelled, shooting as he slides into my feet.

"Nice of you to join me," he grumbles, barrel-rolling out of a line of Cato's fire that embeds a straight line of holes in my porch.

"I was hiding with the little girls, sorry," I shout my comeback over the sounds of my own firing handgun. The pull back nearly knocks me off my feet.

"Don't you have concerned neighbors that can call the cops on this guy?"

I scoff. In this neighborhood, the sounds of gunfire are so common they may as well be white noise to the people who live around me.

"I'm afraid we're the best we've got right now," I tell Hawthorne regretfully.

Cato sends a spear ripping through the air from where he stands by his parked car. It quivers in the door jam above my head, and I gulp. He has a _spear_. Like a motherfucking _caveman_.

Transitioning back to his preferred weapon, Cato unleashes yet another heavy-duty machine gun and shoots at where Hawthorne lies. His line of fire is obstructed by a large palm tree in our front yard — the only thing standing between the two skilled fighters.

But soon, I hear something start to groan over the shooting noises. The palm leaves on the tree rustle in distress as it falls toward the house. I hurry back inside and start toward the living room to help Hawthorne, but he dives through the window in just enough time to miss where the tree collides with the roof.

Cato continues to shoot into the house. Hawthorne's fiddling erratically with his gun when I round the corner and call out to him through the cloud of dust and debris that separates us.

"You okay, Hawthorne?"

"Gun, Mellark!" Hawthorne shouts. I can just about make out his hand extended toward me. He's trying to tell me that he's out of ammo. "Gun!"

Without thinking it through, I lob my handgun toward Hawthorne. I overshoot this entirely, and the last loaded weapon we have to our side of the cause goes flying over his head and crashing through another window.

"Fuck!" Hawthorne curses.

"Shit!" I shriek.

We're trapped in Cato's line of open fire. Several panicked moments later, I remember that I keep spare bullets hidden with my gun. Grabbing the cookie jar, I crouch down under the hailstorm from hell and start rifling for anything usable to help Hawthorne.

But Cato gets to him first. The first thing I hear is Hawthorne howling in pain, and my head whips up at the sounds. His eyes are screwed shut and his limbs writhe spastically in every direction before clawing at his backside.

With the razor, Cato's practically signed his full name into Gale's back.

My partner turns ghastly white and falls face first on the living room floor. I nearly lose the contents of my stomach when I note that his shirt is drenched in bright red blood.

Cato stares admiringly at what he must think is a masterpiece. Then, the trained predator steps through the open window and walks toward me, stamping over the damage he's done to both Hawthorne and the house with no trace of remorse written anywhere on his robotic features.

He's been completely brainwashed by violence, more like a machine than a man.

The light catches on the bloody edge of the razor he used to debilitate Gale, causing a malicious red glint to flash in Cato's eyes as he advances on me.

Using his underestimate of my capabilities to my advantage, I manage to knock the razor out of his hand using my rock hard arm cast.

Underdog, my ass.

Shock flickers in his features momentarily as he reprograms to put up more of a fight. His hand comes around my neck and shoves me to the ground. I land next to Hawthorne and push myself back up immediately, slamming Cato against the wall with so much force that every picture frame in the vicinity comes crashing down.

Cato manages to reach around and throw me across the room by the back of my collar. I stumble into the coffee table and flip over the couch.

He somersaults over the furniture with agility that feels almost unnecessary at this point and tries pinning me down, but I kick him in the stomach and send him stumbling gracelessly backward.

We continues to wrestle like this until I feel him pin my lame arm behind my back, granting him access to position his arms around my neck in a deadly headlock. I struggle against his grasp, pulling at my neck in a desperate attempt to fight off his inhuman force, but it's to no avail. He has gained the upper hand. All it takes is one move to break my neck and kill me.

What did I tell you? God never lets the odds work out for the unlucky.

My vision starts to blur and stars dot my eyes when I hear the familiar sound of bow's cord being pulled back by the straight shaft of an arrow.

Despite the straining effort it takes, I open my eyes in time to see that Katniss Everdeen stands at the end of the hallway, arrow poised and ready to take flight.

"Go on, Miss Everdeen," Cato taunts her. "Shoot. Then we both go down, and you win."

"Let him go," Katniss demands stiffly, lips grazing the feathers of her arrow.

Cato laughs without feeling, inching his fingers to shift his hands to the side and back of my head in preparation for the death blow he's about to incur on me.

Until I realize that there's a way the arrow doesn't have to hit us both.

"I can still do this, however," Cato says, and the fact that he's referring to my death makes me squirm. What he fails to realize is that it's also to get Katniss' attention.

While Cato speaks to her, Katniss' gaze shifts down slightly to meet mine. With my finger, I tap against the back of Cato's hand, communicating my plan silently to her.

Cato's grip on my head tightens, the pressure feeling like it's enough to pop my brain, spewing it out like a balloon being released of its helium.

"I would be working out of order, of course, but I have no problem doing this. It is what I came to do. Another name on a list of kills…"

Katniss takes aim and releases her arrow, and just as I hoped, it lodges itself into Cato's gloved hand. He screams, the first sign of humanity in him I've seen all night, and I shove him back through the window.

The sounds of sirens in the distance cause his blue eyes to go wide. Still nursing his hand, Cato flees to his car and drives poorly, speedily away from the house.

Breathlessly, I turn from the front window Cato retreated from and try to make some sense of what the hell just happened here.

The damage to the home is irreparable. Gale still lies unconscious and bleeding at my feet. Prim and Rue come down the hall, clinging to each other and sobbing.

I look at Katniss, and she looks at me. The spark flickers again. Much duller, but also much warmer than before.

We're safe, for now at least.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello! Sorry this took awhile. Summer got busy in its last leg and between myself and my sister getting ready for school, my days have been swamped with family time and runs to Target. Also, with the very intricate plot of this crime, I wanted to make sure most of my facts were straight before I started getting the hairier stuff out there. Other than the film and the research I've done, I know next to nothing about collusion in companies and cars - and I had to wikiHow gun logistics, and it still doesn't feel 100% accurate, so there's my little disclaimer on that hahaha!**

 **Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed Katniss now having a real role in the story! I did my best with her THG parallels here, and I'm intrigued to see what you all think of this AU version of her using her voice/how she begins to trust Peeta. She will continue to be a key player throughout, so get ready for that!**

 **Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Please continue to leave feedback, as it truly helps me navigate my writing process, such as what needs to be made clearer, or what dynamics are working, etc. You are truly the most helpful tool, so I would really appreciate any and all commentary.**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	9. Eight: Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head

**Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The Hunger Games_** **, nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film** ** _The Nice Guys._** **All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Eight: Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head *~*~*~***

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

"Quick, bring him to the table."

Katniss' voice is sharp, like the edge of the razor blade that slashed up my back, but as she continues to shout orders (orders regarding how to handle _me_ ), her voice dulls. Fuck, it sounds a million miles away.

Slowly, I try to locate the girl. But when I slide my eyelids open, everything is exploding in my vision like blinding fireworks. The jumbo kind you light up in your backyard on the Fourth of July. It makes my head ache, and I moan.

"Careful. On three, we're going to lift him. One, two…"

My ears are ringing. My head feels light, like it's been cut loose from the rest of my body and is floating up toward the night sky. Every one of my nerves is on high alert, sensitive to the lightest of touches.

"Peeta, get me that bottle of whiskey."

"You've got to be shitting me."

"Stop _drinking_ it. I need it to disinfect the cuts."

"How do you know all of this survival shit, anyway, Everdeen?"

"My mom was a nurse before she admitted herself to a mental institution, and my dad used to take me hunting. Now that story time is over, hold him down. This isn't going to be pretty…"

An icy hot wave of pain washes over my back without warning, and a scream rips from my core. It's like they have forgotten that I haven't really left this earth yet, that I can still hear and feel everything they're doing. Two strong hands, presumably Mellark's, are pressing my shoulders down on the counter before I can even realize I've been writhing under them, and I discover that I'm not as cognizant as I must have thought I was.

I feel like I've been tossed into a burning furnace, lying on my back in a bed of hot coals that will sear my skin and devour me until I am reduced to nothing but a charred crisp.

It hurts. It fucking hurts…

"That's hurting him! Mister Hawthorne!" I hear a young voice shout.

"Prim, I need you to stay calm, alright?" I hear Katniss tell her sternly. "I need you to be my assistant. Can you do that? We can't bring him to a hospital, obviously, so we have to do this here, and you have to trust me."

"Is he gonna be okay?"

"We're gonna do the best we can, Prim. The good news is that Cato didn't have enough time to make any life-threatening cuts; it just looks worse than it is."

That is good news, I want to say. The life I've lived certainly hasn't been a picnic, but I'd prefer to have a little more of it if I can help it. I try to articulate that, maybe lighten up the mood with a joke, but I find that I am — what did Mellark call it? — reduced to being an Avox. Rendered speechless, trapped in my own mind. Everything hurts, and I _feel_ like I'm dying.

"He's still in a lot of pain. Peeta, get me some coffee grounds. That should clot the bleeding. And if you have any garlic, grind it up…it'll ease the pain. Prim, I need as many pieces of cloth and bandages you can find in this house, and then go into the pocket on my sheath and get me the vial of morphine and a syringe…"

"You just carry those around?"

"I told you already," I can practically hear Katniss' teeth grinding down on each other from the exertion of gritting them at Mellark's implication that she could have uses those syringes for self-medicating purposes. Until she reveals that it's only partially true, and that she took the morphine from someone else using it for that very purpose, "My mom was a nurse."

Mellark shuts up after that.

The sound of sobs float above me. They make me want to reach out, to soothe the source. I recognize them as Prim's. It only makes the pain worse to know that I can't calm her down.

But when I call out to her, no sound comes out except a scream.

"Prim, go check up on Rue," Mellark barks, sounding somewhat shaken by the noise that's just come from my mouth. "I'll drive her home."

"Gale," Katniss' voice is now a breath away by my ear. "Hold on."

There's a pinch, then cold numbness. It is followed by gradual, complete, utter darkness.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

When I wake with a staggering start, I'm standing in the streets of Chicago, gazing up at the building I used to call home. The windows are broken, shuttered up with pieces of cardboard. There's a giant padlock on the door.

I run to it, banging as hard as I can and pulling at the lock in any attempt to pry the damn thing open.

Because somehow, I can sense that my family's trapped inside. And they're in trouble if they can't get out.

"Ma! Posy!" I cry, receiving nothing but the empty, hollow echo of nothingness in return from the other side. I even call out to my brothers, Rory and Vick, like we're all kids and they haven't up and left just like the rest of the sorry men in my family.

"It's me, guys! Let me in!"

A blustering wind wails down the barren street. A gale force wind, like my namesake, whistling through the boarded windows and pushing me out of the way of the door.

When I find my footing and catch my breath, I come face to face with him. His eyes, exactly like mine, are wrinkled around the edges. His hair is thinning and gray. His smile is sad, lips cracked and dry from years of smoking cigars.

"Dad?"

The man nods. Something deep inside of me starts to ache, glowing like an ember that I had previously thought had been extinguished. It burns bright in the very presence of him.

There isn't much time to celebrate this reunion, however. I remember the door. He's a mechanic. Surely, he could figure out some way to get the family out of there, before whatever danger that is looming on the horizon comes for them. I rush up to my father, but he takes a step back.

I try not to let it cut me.

"Dad…they're trapped inside. The boys, Ma, Posy…I can't help them. You have to help them."

Dad's smile fades. He turns away from me and starts walking up the street.

That fuzzy, warm coal burning in my chest is abruptly extinguished, and my insides go cold. He's leaving us again, that bastard.

"Come back! Come back here, you coward!" I shout at his shrinking backside till my throat is dry and raw.

He breaks out into a run, into a murky green mist that will swallow him and allow him to disappear forever unless I stop him. I start sprinting after the asshole, knowing I can't let him get away. Not again.

"Dad! Please, Dad!" I shout. My father races into the green cloud, and begins to scale the nighttime sky.

I feel my feet lifting from the ground with sudden weightlessness as I continue to chase him. Swimming in a pool of air with zero gravity, I broaden my strokes, putting all of my energy into a full-fledged sprint in order to keep up with him…but he always manages to be just out of my reach whenever I think I'm close enough.

Another gust of wind pulls me away from father's disintegrating shadow. I call out to him one last time, my voice carrying across the vast expanse of universe stretched out between us.

And then, he's gone. Evaporating into thin air.

My screams eventually morph into something that sounds entirely different. Soothing, almost. It isn't until a soft chirping matches my pitch and finishes out the tune of a familiar lullaby of my childhood that I realize I'm singing for the first time since I was a little kid.

 _Deep in the meadow, under the willow  
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow…_

"How do you know that song?"

The Mockingjay that swoops through the clouds beside me opens its mouth to cackle in my face.

"How the fuck _don't_ I know that? I know every song," the bird practically hums, it's long, sleek black beak moving.

Even when she speaks, the Mockingjay seems to sing. Despite the fact that seemingly everything coming out of its mouth is a crude insult to humankind.

"You're not even real."

"Course I am. At least I was, till the smog became too much. I mean, look at the shit we're swimming in. It's disgusting. Now, birds like me either face extinction or drive around in cars."

"Cars?" I ask incredulously.

"Yeah, cars. Same fuckers who are killing us, ironically. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em…now, get outta my lane!"

The bird nearly skewers me in the stomach with her pointy beak, and as I fall to earth, a loud whistle follows me.

"That is some elaborate psychosis," a much more familiar voice chimes in, adding his two cents wherever he feels it's necessary, as per usual. "Wouldn't take you for one to have fantastical dreamscapes, Hawthorne."

I tell Peeta, who now sits beside me in his Cadillac convertible as we race down the empty LA highway, to shut the fuck up.

"I must have been talking in my sleep or something."

Mellark snorts unapologetically. "Yeah, you've been out cold for a while. I'd say I enjoyed the peace and quiet, but you talk in your sleep, so it's like you never left."

"Where are we going exactly, Mellark?"

His eyebrows arch high up on his forehead.

"To get the peace offering for Katniss. Keep up, Hawthorne. Last time I let you sleep on the job..."

Thumbing the car upholstery of my seat, I lean back and try to ignore the way my heart still races and my back still feels like it's been set on fire. Had I dreamt the past few hours? Being with Madge, fighting off Cato, getting stabbed in the back...was it all not real?

Beside me, Mellark smirks in that particularly unnerving way that makes me want to punch him and laugh with him at the same time.

"Time's running out, you know," he says.

"I know."

"You aren't nervous at all?"

"No…should I be? Why aren't you?"

Mellark simply laughs, tossing his head back. The sound floats out of the convertible and up to the stars.

"Because I've got insurance," he says calmly, lifting his pant leg to reveal a gun strapped to his ankle.

"Is that an ankle gun?" I ask. Mellark nods, pulling his pants back over the concealed weapon and refocusing on the road. "That's pretty sweet."

"Yeah, it is…" he yawns. "You're a bad influence. I think I'm starting to fall asleep at the wheel here. Good thing this car can drive itself."

Now, I'm really lost. Blinking, I ask him to make sure I've heard him right, "What the hell are you talking about, Mellark?"

Peeta doesn't answer me right away. He just forces me to watch as his hands miraculously leave the wheel. As if it has a mind of its own, the wheel continues to turn and keeps the car straight on its course. He then takes his foot off the gas pedal and smiles at me, proud of his little trick.

I scowl. I was willing to play along before, but now, he's pushing it.

"Very nice. Now, put your hands back on the wheel before you get us killed."

Mellark eyes me contemptuously. "Where have you been, Hawthorne? All cars do this now."

And then he falls fast asleep, letting the vehicle steer itself down the road. I try waking him up, but my efforts are in vain. He's snoring before I can even utter his name. I'm left alone in the self-driving car, which I still can't believe is self driving.

Once I allow myself to accept it as truth, the hum of the engine remaining steady on the highway actually begins to soothe me.

I'm about to doze off, too, when someone starts honking their horn as they drive straight toward us.

"Mellark, wake up!" I shout, shaking a lifeless Peeta beside me as our car drives right into the oncoming headlight. "Wake up!"

 _"Wake up…wake up…"_

I gasp as my eyes fly open, and my vision is flooded with the tacky harsh lighting of Mellark's kitchen. A cold sweat soaks my body, which has been wrapped in a warm blanket.

"Gale, wake up," the voice I recognize Katniss' voice is much clearer, much closer now. The quiet, yet hardened timbre matches how the Mockingjay spoke. "You're having a bad dream."

I start to rise, but the feeling like my back's being clawed open by a rabid animal practically knocks me out. The back of Katniss' hand is suddenly on my forehead and neck.

"Your fever's breaking, at least. Which is good," she whispers with a warm smile as she comfortingly brushes the sweaty strands of hair from my face. "Prim was worried sick that you were a goner."

I manage a smile and tell the young rebel, "Tell her I'm not going anywhere. I'm gonna stay right here, cause all kinds of trouble."

This earns a laugh from Katniss.

"You should get some more sleep. It's late. We're all taking turns keeping watch." Her lips twitch humorously. "You know, in case you die."

"Thanks," I grumble. "Appreciate it."

Katniss leans back in the kitchen chair that has been stationed beside my makeshift hospital bed on the table, and she starts fiddling with something long and shiny in her hands.

It reminds me of the ribbons Madge wore in her hair the night we met.

Which reminds me of something else…

"Katniss."

Her head shoots up. "You alright? Need anything?"

"Madge called earlier, said she had a gift for you on behalf of Snow. A family heirloom as a peace offering…"

Katniss' dark eyebrows knit together in confusion. Slowly, she unravels the gold chain from her fingers and holds it up to me. A bird, with an arrow in its mouth, is cutting through a golden band, which has been welded to the front of an old pocket watch.

"You mean this pin? I stole it from Grandfather ages ago…Plutarch made this watch for me out of it. We were using it in the film."

As she speaks, the ticking clock with the Mockingjay pin swings back and forth, back and forth, taunting me with each swing of the pendulum — symbolizing every second that passes by.

 _Time is running out, you know…_

 _If you can't beat 'em, join 'em…_

 _There are two sides to every story…_

 _Promise me you'll get this to Katniss, and make sure that only she has it at all times…_

"My coat pocket," I rasp to Katniss. Whatever I brought home is still nestled in my coat pocket.

Rising silently from her chair, Everdeen understands that there is where the mystery peace offering waits. She follows my request, going to the other side of the kitchen to fetch my tattered, blood-soaked jacket. She reaches into the pocket and pulls out the white package. Katniss holds up the rose to her eye-level with a trembling hand, before she throws it out the window like it has burned her.

A chill runs up my aching spine as she pulls at the delicate ribbon tied around the package, opens it up, and lets hundreds of tiny bits of paper flutter to the floor.

Snow tricked us all.

Katniss is right. Snow is the criminal.

The world goes black again.

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

"I can watch him."

Her tired voice breaks through the evening's eery stillness and startles me. To calm myself, I remind myself again that she's still alive. A little traumatized, sure, but alive.

"Your shift doesn't start for another ten minutes, Little Duck," I say, rubbing my leaden eyes.

Beside me, Hawthorne snores and comically drools on my table like a tranquillized bear. His face is twisted in pain — whether it's from his cuts or his irrefutable nightmares, I'm not sure.

Prim shrugs. She watches Gale with a nerve-wracked expression, still untrusting of Katniss' assurance that he was going to be up and walking by tomorrow after she patched him up like a professional. The kid does enough fretting for the lot of us.

"I couldn't sleep if i wanted to anyway. I'm starting to feel like you."

Although I can feel myself laughing along with her seemingly innocent joke about my habits rubbing off on her, I silently pray that it never actually happens.

"Where's Katniss?" I ask my sister as we switch places.

"She climbed through the hole in the roof — the one from the fallen tree — a while ago. Said she couldn't sleep either," Prim answers. "I think she's still up there."

I suppress the groan that rises in my throat. With everything that's happened tonight, a tree impaling the rental home is one of the few events that I managed to put out of my mind until now.

But given the state of the rest of the place, a hole in the roof is the least of our concerns.

Prim bites her lip, knowing that our living situation has always been a sore subject. Now, with the place obliterated, we have nowhere to go, and no money to pay for the damage. She's undoubtedly blaming herself and her constant disapproval of the house for this, since she's such a firm believer in karma.

I wink down at my little Atlas as she positions herself comfortably in the chair to watch over Hawthorne. She deserves to take a break from carrying the world on her shoulders once in a while, and I hope that she knows that.

"I never liked this place, anyway," I tell her earnestly.

It isn't much, and it certainly doesn't secure our future, but it it's enough. Prim smiles up at me before she turns around, rests her head in the crook of her arms, and gazes up attentively at Hawthorne.

When I find her, perched on the roof with her legs tucked against her chest and her chin resting on her knees, she's staring longingly up at the stars. Or at least what can be seen of them through the thick curtain of smog. She's finally rid herself of that itchy red dress, now clad in the oversized t-shirt and a pair of boxers I loaned her.

And a part of me can't help but wish she were wearing my clothes under a different set of circumstances, that this act I've made up in my head between us could maybe be real.

With a sigh, I hoist myself through the hole and up onto the caved-in roof, careful not to cause any more damage.

I'm not sure she even notices I'm here when I situate myself beside her and follow her gaze. It's only when Katniss begins to speak that I know she senses my presence.

"See that constellation up there?" she asks.

I squint up into the nighttime sky as she points out the shape of an oblong, slanted rectangle with a little tail attached to it — sort of like a kite trapped in the branches of a tall tree.

"That's Lyra. It's supposed to represent the lyre played by Orpheus, son of Apollo. He played it so well that even wild beasts, rocks, and trees were charmed by his music. He fell madly in love with a beautiful nymph, Eurydice. They were only married for a little while before Eurydice was bitten by a snake in the grass trying to run from another man who had been pursuing her and died from its poison. Orpheus was devastated. He went to the underworld to retrieve his wife and sought audience with Hades and Persephone, who were so struck by his music that they returned the ghost of Eurydice to him. Together, they were allowed to leave the underworld, but on the condition that Orpheus could not look back until they had reached the upper world. Orpheus, strength failing and eager to see his wife, looked back as soon as he arrived at the Earth's surface, and Eurydice, having not yet crossed the threshold, disappeared. For a second time, he had lost his love. He was eventually dismembered and his lyre was carried to heaven by the Muses."

It's a haunting story of two star-crossed lovers, one that she can practically recite from rote. I find myself taken by the way she weaves images out of words without even trying. Her voice rises and falls with swells of passion, and her hands are filled with lively movement while she speaks.

It's hard to tell what I'm more enraptured by: the story of the famous Greek myth or the girl who tells it to me.

"It's my favorite constellation," she admits, hands tucked under her folded knees. With eyes downcast, she adds, "I think it's because Lyra reminds me of my father."

It isn't the first time her dad has come up tonight. Given what Hawthorne tells me from his interactions with Madge, he was a highly influential person in her life, and his death had possibly an even greater impact.

I guess I know a thing or two about what that's like.

"You two were close?"

Katniss nods, firmly pressing her lips into a thin, pale line.

"He was my best friend. He loved the stars. He told me the story of Lyra all the time, because I asked to hear it so much…now, I can't even see it anymore with this stupid smog," she says, voice thick and strangled with emotion.

Her eyes suddenly meet mine, two burning coals melting away at my icy exterior. I swear, I can see the stars reflected in those glittering eyes.

While I'm waxing poetic about her damn eyes, she speaks up, reminding me why we're even on this roof to begin with.

"I'm fighting for what I believe is right. You don't have to agree with how I do it, but all I ask is that you understand it," she tells me. "Then, _maybe_ we have a shot at being friends."

 _Friends._ The word rolls off her tongue and tangles in the wind like a harmony melding with its adjoining melody. I was aiming for ally, but I can work with friend.

But it comes with a price. In exchange for her trust, I owe her my understanding.

I offer her a smile of reconciliation and nod, telling her that I do understand, which earns me a smile in return. After everything we've been through tonight, I think it's safe to say that we can put aside our differences and at least attempt to get along.

I couldn't afford to think like that before, but after she saved my life tonight, I need every friend I can get.

"What changed?" I ask, rather bluntly, now that we're on the road to friendship. "You saving me back there…I didn't expect you to…I thought you…"

Katniss shrugs.

"When I was resting in your sister's room before Cato came I remembered something. About the bread."

I blink, confused, as she stares me down like that's supposed to bring me to some kind of epiphany. I've seen a lot of bread in my lifetime, so she could be alluding to any number of things. When she realizes that I have no clue what bread incident she's referring to, she goes on.

"Dad had just died. My mother was unreachable, and Grandfather was unbearable, so I fled. I had nowhere to go, which didn't bode well when it decided to rain in California for once. So I hid out in a Food Mart…and I saw this loaf of bread. I didn't have any money, but I was starving, and that bread just looked so good…"

Then, I remember. My mouth flies open in shock.

"You stole it," I finish for her. "Or at least you tried to, but then the manager caught you and dragged you back into the store, threatening to call the police…"

"And you stepped in from the bakery and told the manager you gave it to me. Then you paid out of pocket to make up for it. I remember you hardly had enough money to buy the bread for yourself."

I hang my head, a little embarrassed by her sharp memory, and nod. It's true. I was in between failing the night classes I needed to take to earn my degree in criminal justice and was working long day shifts at the local grocery store bakery to pay for rent. Money was always tight. Just looking at Prim those days was unbearable. I could practically see her ribs poking out of her shirt.

But when the rain-soaked girl with fire in her eyes came into the store, I knew that I wasn't the unluckiest person in the world, and until I stopped acting like it, my situation was never going to get any better.

Helping that girl turned my life around. Kicked my ass into gear to earn my degree and my P.I. license after four years, got me a job that could pay for rent, put food on the table, and got the color back on my sister's face.

That girl, the one I credit with forever changing my life, was Katniss Everdeen.

"Once I realized who you were, I stopped thinking of ways I could attack you in your sleep and escape," she says with a shrug that is both effortlessly cute and so attractive at the same time. It drives me wild, and I tell my head, heart, and dick to shut up.

"It had been a long time since someone had shown me kindness," Katniss continues. "Finnick was right. You're a good guy."

I have a hearty laugh at that. Katniss eyes me quizzically. Maybe I was a good guy when I gave her that bread, but if she took a look at my track record since buying her that loaf of bread almost five years ago, she wouldn't be going around calling me good.

"I don't feel that way," I admit. "I haven't felt good in years."

Silently, she takes my weighty implication in, and I instantly regret my admission. I'm not one for opening up to strangers. I don't even open up to _friends_. Something about the night air hitting the back of my neck and this girl in my clothes beside me allows every guard I've ever held up to come crumpling down.

One look. That's all it takes. One little slip up, and suddenly I find my eyes having locked with hers and my trap shooting off sap again.

"I have _no_ idea what I'm doing, anymore," I confess to her, "I became a private investigator because I wanted to make this world right. Given everything that's happened in my life, I thought if I could do good, I could feel good…but all it's managed to do is turn me into something I'm not. A monster. If I were to die tomorrow, I wouldn't still be me anymore. Does that make any sense?"

"A lot, actually," she eventually says. Her gaze softens as she releases the breath she's been holding. "Peeta, I'm sorry. For putting you and your family in danger like this. Whoever is sending these people — Cato, and Clove, and Marvel — isn't going to stop until they've killed me. If you need me to leave, I can…"

I cut her off with a hand covering hers. The rooftop is cool, but her hand is impossibly warm, causing my stomach to swoop and somersault in a way that I've never felt before. The impact shocks us both so much that we pull away at the same time.

"You have people who need you to stay alive, Katniss," I say, trying in vain to ignore the jolt that runs through me. "You have to live for them."

"And what about you?" she asks. What she means to ask is, _What happens if you risk your life for me?_

I shrug.

"No one really needs me," I tell her.

And it isn't meant to be self-pitying. It's all true. Hawthorne doesn't need me. If I had died in that shootout, it would have complicated the case, but he could solve it on his own. It would be hardest for Prim, but she's and stronger than I ever was. She could learn to survive without me holding her back. She could be with a family that provides better for her, and go to a good school, and live the life I've always dreamed for her without me around to be the fuck up.

"That's not true," Katniss refutes me as if reading my mind. "Hawthorne's very good at his job, but it's a team effort that brought you here. That little girl downstairs would be damaged beyond repair without you. I see the way she looks at you. You are everything to her."

Everdeen's eyes meet mine, and with the same determined look she's given me all night, she tells me, "And now...I need you."

I feel that electric tug drawing me closer toward her once again, but this time, it bursts like a star on its last leg, spreading from my chest and throughout my body until the sensation threatens to pour from the very tips of my being.

I'm about to tell her everything I feel about her, or kiss her, or some stupid combination of both, when Prim's voice rings out from the floor below.

"Come quickly!" Prim cries.

The strangled sob in her voice has me flying through the hole in the roof and encasing her in my arms within seconds. With Katniss close behind, we make our way to the living room to watch a breaking news cast that plays on the television.

 _"At around half past one this morning, the sounds of gunshots were reported by residents of a Panem neighborhood. Authorities followed the calls to find a body abandoned on the side of the road with a bullet wound in his head on Clear Lake Avenue. The body has been identified as well-known adult entertainment star and close cohort of Annika Breasta, Nick O. Police are investigating the scene for further information on the murderer and the intent. Stay tuned for updates…"_

I freeze. Finnick Odair is dead. Shot just three blocks from where he fled…where I let him go.

Prim cries. Katniss sinks to the floor and buries her head in her hands. Hawthorne groans in pain.

 _My fault. This is all my fault._

And I feel the world beginning to come crashing down, like a tree through the roof of an exploding bakery.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello! In honor of me impulse-buying a DVD of _Nice Guys_ yesterday, here's an update. So now, Gale's going to pull through, we know that Snow sent for Gale and Peeta to get that "gift" in order to have Cato kill Katniss, Everlark is heating up, and unfortunately, Finnick suffered the same canon fate. I did promise twists and turns! There are still more to come!**

 **Thanks for your feedback! I truly appreciate it! Please, feel free to comment on what you think will happen next, what you thought of this chapter, etc - I'd love to hear all of it! I'm currently working on uploading the fics on this site as well as upcoming work on AO3 (same penname), so be on the lookout for updates on that!**

 **Till next time,**

 **ILoVeWicked**


	10. Nine: Papa Was A Rolling Stone

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Hunger Games_ , nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film _The Nice Guys._ All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Nine: Papa Was A Rolling Stone *~*~*~***

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

When I wake up the next morning, Mellark is missing.

Katniss helps me to my feet. It's a slow, agonizing process in which my stiff joints reorient themselves and a fresh batch of pain slices through my back in prickling tendrils. Once a dull, numb ache takes its place, I am standing upright again. I can't believe it. I'm about to open my mouth to thank Katniss for all she did last night when she mutely shakes her head, rejecting my grateful sentiments. She's no longer trying to run from us, and she's made that much clear, but she doesn't want a song and dance about it.

I start drafting a list of ways I can repay her, anyway.

Prim scurries into the kitchen and dotes over me, her eyes bright with relief over my condition, despite the long yawns littered between her exclamations indicating that she got next to no sleep the night before.

Neither of them address the elephant in the room.

"Where's Mellark?" I ask finally, urging everyone to put last night and my injuries behind us and focus on our next problem. With people on the lookout for Katniss and Cato still loose, we have to figure out where to go from here, and we can't do that if we're not all present.

"He went out a few hours after the broadcast about Finnick aired," Katniss announces, earning a look from Primrose and me. Since when does Mellark trust Katniss with his whereabouts? "He said he had a couple of errands to run this morning…"

And that's when it registers in his sister's mind. He went to Katniss because she doesn't know his destructive tendencies like Prim does…or even like I do.

"Shit, shit, shit," Prim hisses repeatedly to herself, rushing to the obliterated front window. Broken glass crunching under her worn red Converse sneakers, she leans out of the window and notes that the beat up Cadillac her brother drives around in is gone.

"What's going on? Is he okay?" Katniss asks, voice rising in worry ever so slightly.

"Yeah, he's fine, he's just...an idiot," Prim grumbles, hurrying over to the kitchen island and grabbing the keys to _my_ car. She tosses the keys to Katniss, who shows off her reaction time by catching them with one hand, despite her confused expression being locked on Prim.

Finally, Primrose offers her the much needed explanation and sighs, "Can you drive us to Greasy Sae's Pub, Katniss?"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The Pub that Prim directs us to is a Tex-Mex themed, hole-in-the wall dive about twenty minutes from what remains of the rental home. I am instantly hit with the stench of cigarette smoke as I pass through the bar's swinging doors, despite how early in the morning it is. Several bowed heads are scattered throughout the dimly-lit crawlspace, and an old jukebox is propped up against one of the mold-infested walls, playing a sad, crooning melody from decades past.

The owner, Sae, is a scraggly old woman with grease stains on her button-up shirt and gaps in her smile from where teeth have either decayed or gone missing. She recognizes Primrose approaching at the front of our little pack and instantly shrinks back against the wall of booze behind her.

"Where's my brother?" Prim wastes no time with pleasantries and speaks in a demanding, direct tone to the much older woman. "It's really important that he gets home."

Sae offers Primrose a small, sympathetic smile. I'm sure she gets no real enjoyment out of serving drunkards all day, but it's a business. And the woman looks like she needs as much of it as she can get.

She points a wrinkled finger at the darkened end of the bar, where Peeta is tossing back a glass of Scotch. There are deep purple rivets in the creases under his eyes. His skin is turning a sickly yellow pallor. His shoulders are hunched, and his knuckles are blanched from the way he grips the counter for balance.

My body immediately starts to heat with rage, the pain in my back almost nonexistent compared to the throbbing vein in my head from my pain in the ass partner.

When looks up and finds us bombarding his barstool, he doesn't even appear to be fazed. It's almost like he knew we'd find him here anyway; he just didn't know where else to go.

"Oh good, you're up," he deadpans.

"Mellark," I say, forcing his bleary eyes to snap up to meet mine and encouraging him to make haste with his morning binge. "Cut the crap. We need to come up with our next move."

"Isn't it obvious?" a weak voice speaks up, instead of the voice with dripping sarcasm that I'm almost expecting to snap back at me. "The next move is to get rid of me from the equation."

That's when I realize he isn't drunk. He's tired, he's miserable, and he's had one drink to curb whatever's going on in his head, but he isn't drunk.

He is, however, being stubborn and stupid. And as I've said before, I have no tolerance for stupid statements like the one he's just uttered.

"Don't be stupid, Mellark. That's ridiculous," I counter.

"Finnick is dead because of me!" Peeta nearly shouts, jostling his sister and Katniss, who watch from the other end of the bar. "Cato slashed your back because of me! Trust me, you're better off without me. This mission will go on much more smoothly if you leave me and let me take my chances. My two days are up, anyway."

Katniss looks like he may as well have slapped her across the face. She has no problem calling him out, attacking him with emotional ammunition.

"So, you're just going to abandon us, then? What happened to all that talk you were doing last night, to being my ally?"

"That was before I watched a newscaster tell us that a man who was alive in my house hours before was killed," Peeta fires back, shaking and grabbing fistfuls of his hair. He jerks himself from the stool and slams his back against the wall, earning the brief attention of some of the other bar-goers.

Katniss continues to combat him. "We need to keep going! There isn't much time, and if my Grandfather finds me before we get the message out there, the rebellion is over…"

"I don't care! I'm tired of it being my fault! It's my fault you all were put in danger last night, my fault Finnick is dead, my fault this case has gone no where _my fault my fault my fault…_ "

He crashes to the floor, taking big, gulping, heaving breaths as he repeats the words like a sick mantra in his head. I've never seen him like this, worked up to the point of near nervous breakdown that he has no idea how to handle. This must be what he was like after the explosion that killed his family. Inconsolable, desperate, and wracked with guilt that he has placed entirely on himself.

And in his voice, I hear an eleven-year-old boy from Chicago who's world came apart when his father walked out the door without looking back. And again in an eighteen-year-old man who lost the woman he loved to the brother he trusted.

 _This is your fault. You pushed everyone away. They're gone, and they're never coming back, and it's your fault…_

I start to feel faint, but Katniss is there to prop me up and keep me supported. She's allied herself with two men who have demons that refuse to be hidden for too long, and I think it's taken her up until now to realize just what she's working with.

But from her position at my side, Everdeen looks up at me, and I can read her expression like an open book. Regardless of how unique his style of detective-work may be, we need Peeta Mellark to complete her mission against the grandfather that is clearly hiding something from the public...something that he does not want Katniss exposing.

I look sadly to Mellark, understanding him in a way that I never thought I would when we first joined forces. My stomach pangs with familiar hollowness and I long to reach out and assure him that what he believes is all his fault is equal parts mine.

I'm the one who put him up to this whole thing, after all.

I suppose I could try talking some sense into him, but every time that happens, one of us ends up yelling or on the ground with a broken limb. There's Katniss, who manages to make him obey commands like a house-training puppy, but even she doesn't seem to be enough to break this hysterical tailspin of a spell he's fallen under.

But it's Primrose who ultimately knows him best. Primrose, with a pure heart and adoration for the man who has kept her alive for this long, who steps in, grabs his wrists, and stares into his swollen, red eyes.

"Annie, Cinna, Plutarch, Finnick…they died. Real. But what do all of those deaths mean? They mean that these people fought for their lives to mean something. They chose this. They chose Katniss, and now she's choosing you. Real. And if you end this, Peeta, if you and Mister Hawthorne help Katniss, then the lives we have lost could mean something. It's not your fault. What happened at the bakery six years ago isn't your fault. That's not real. Last night wasn't your fault. You are so close to being good again, Peeta. That's _real_."

And then, she pulls her brother in for a bone-crushing hug. I can hear the sounds of muffled sobs — but they come from Mellark as he buries his head in her thick flaxen hair. They stay like this for a while, two lost souls out at sea holding onto each other in order to stay afloat.

It turns out to be the push he needs. Once Peeta breaks from his hug with his sister, he tells everyone exactly what they want to hear, revealing once again how he is a key player in this operation:

"I know where we need to go next."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

One hour later, I'm practically folded in two in the back of Mellark's car, my long legs packed like a can of sardines and my arms pressed to my sides. I grumble a weak complaint as Mellark, who drives like a chimpanzee breaking loose from the zoo, screeches from full speed to a stop at a red light and nearly props the side of the Cadillac up on the curb. Katniss fusses that she's going to be sick in the passenger's seat and Prim scolds her brother for being a rough driver when he has an injured passenger in tow.

"Sorry, everyone. Didn't realize I was chauffeuring club card holders of the Stick Up Their Ass Society today," Mellark brazenly shouts over his shoulder, all traces of his episode from earlier having vanished.

Despite the annoying turbulence and the irritation it's causing in my back, I smile. Oddly enough, it's comforting to have the old Mellark back.

Beside me in the cramped quarters, Primrose sends attentive glances my way every few seconds, asking me if my back's doing alright.

"For the eight hundredth time, I'm fine, Prim," I assure her.

I shift in the seat, wincing only a little as my injuries rub against the car's upholstery. Luckily for me, Cato only managed to skim the surface of my skin, cutting deep in just a few places along my back. The sutures Katniss stitched me up with are holding strong, thanks to a First Aid kit Prim bought months ago when Peeta cut his hand drunkenly trying to punch through a window doing investigative work.

I'm practically good as new.

If only memories could scab over and be sewn together like a cut can.

The salty smell of the Pacific Ocean air suddenly hits me as Mellark swerves into an unfamiliar driveway and corrals us all out of his car. Spryly, he bounds up the porch stairs and bangs on the door until an old woman with long, wild gray hair and harrowed eyes meets him.

"Mags," Peeta breathes. "Good to see you."

"Peeta!" she exclaims, greeting him by grabbing his face, squeezing his cheeks, and presenting him with a sloppy kiss on the lips. Mellark looks absolutely dumfounded by the gesture, but Mags continues to act like she's at a family reunion. Behind me, Katniss snorts.

"Have you found my Annie yet?" the woman, Mags, asks eagerly to Peeta.

I put together that this is the Margaret Seaworth who hired Mellark almost instantly. The look of blind hope on the woman's face is enough to shatter anyone's beating heart.

Peeta shakes his head. He grabs Katniss and pulls her to the front of our little huddle.

"Missus Seaworth — Mags, I'm really sorry to inform you…again…that your niece has been confirmed dead," Peeta says.

He must be used to the agonized reaction that comes from the older woman, because while he looked pained to be saying this, he doesn't flinch when she screams a slew of rejections his way like the rest of us do. Gesturing toward Katniss, Peeta continues.

"I believe that this is the woman you saw in Annie's house last week, Mags. This is Katniss Everdeen. Does she look familiar at all?"

The old woman cries out against this with so much force that it nearly knocks Peeta and Katniss off of the deck.

"That is _not_ my Annie! I've told you once, and I'll tell you again: I am not crazy. I know what I saw! I did not see this girl, I saw my niece in that house! She was standing by her window in a blue pinstripe suit, and…"

Something Mags says captures my attention and makes it near impossible to hear anything else she's saying after that. Blue pinstripe suit…that seems familiar.

An alarm sounds off in my head.

"I've seen that before," I speak up, silencing the older woman and the private investigator who is attempting to placate her. "On a costume rack in Plutarch Heavensbee's Palace at the party…it was labeled with Annie's last words."

Katniss seems to be grappling with a revelation of her own, as a small, giddy smile spreads across her face.

"If we burn, you burn with us," Katniss mutters, finishing the thought for us all.

"So that means…" Prim starts, looking to her brother to catch on to what she's insinuating after having put these pieces together.

Peeta grins. Turning back to the very distraught, wealthy woman who grips to her doorframe for dear life, Peeta asks if she can take us to Annie's house.

Mags agrees, but only after we've eaten the batch of cookies she's made.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"So, Mags, walk us through what you saw when you got here last week," Mellark says calmly as Mags keys us into Annika Breasta's abandoned apartment.

Other than a few tell-tale signs that it belonged to a porn star — highly suggestive photos and graphic paintings mounted on the walls cause Mellark to command Prim to keep her eyes on the floor — the place is eerily sparse and otherwise decorated quite conservatively. A small couch with floral cushions, record player propped up beside a leather armchair, a modestly sized television set on the opposite wall. Lace curtains pushed aside to let light through a giant sun-room window. Mid-afternoon shadows cast themselves in treacherous shapes on the cream colored walls.

Setting her belongings down on a table with copious issues of porno magazines, Mags begins to animatedly recount the alleged resurrection of her niece in as much detail as her brain will allow her to remember.

"I pulled up to the driveway, and through that big sun window, I could see on the wall right here, above the television _my Annie_. She…well, she was talking at her desk."

Everyone's eyes scan the room. Nothing even closely resembling a desk is in here.

"There's no desk in this room, Missus Seaworth," Peeta says, patience beginning to wear thin from every minute we lose to hearing the same story with no results. "Something about that doesn't add up, and right now, we really need you to be specific."

"Peeta," Katniss' purr of a voice hums toward him, and he looks up at her with eyes as sticky-sweet as molasses. Instantly calmed. We've all been so engrossed in Mags that we've failed to notice that Katniss walks around this place like she owns it. "I think I have something that might speed this process along a little bit."

It's considerably warmer between the two of them than it was yesterday, which is a miracle for everyone involved in this case. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. Her eyelashes brush her cheeks as she grins again and averts her gaze to look down at her feet.

Holy shit, he has Katniss Everdeen _blushing_.

Whatever happened between their brawl yesterday, my blackout, and now, I'm not sure, but I'm inclined to buy Mellark a celebratory drink for mastering the magic trick of getting Everdeen to flirt.

Katniss crosses the room to a giant chest that resides next to the sofa and pries it open. With Prim's help, they pull a large projector out of the chest and flip it on. A square of light hits the wall at the exact angle and location Mags described.

"There were two reels. Plutarch made sure we had a backup. One was at Cinna's, but that was destroyed. The other was kept with Annie here, but when Marvel and Clove showed up, she must have literally diverted them off course, making them think that the second tape was burned in the car crash."

Katniss smiles wistfully at us, adding, "Annie may have been a little crazy, but she was smart."

Mags gasps, a delayed reaction that's come about a week too late.

"Does this mean that my niece is dead?"

"Jesus Christ, YES!" Mellark shouts back, swept up by both Katniss' story and his mounting frustration with his client's ignorance to a glaring fact.

The room is stunned as Mags clasps her mouth in horror.

"I mean, uh, yes. I'm so sorry," Mellark amends the blow.

Mags sinks onto the couch and begins weeping loudly. Prim immediately goes to sit beside her, rubbing soothing circles into her back and running a comforting hand over her hair.

Mellark sighs and offers his half-hearted condolences again, while I nod to Katniss and urge her to go on.

"The accident with Annie led them off the rebel scent for a while. I came back here a few days after Annie's death, found where she had hidden the tape, played it back to make sure everything was still there, and took it to my projectionist."

"Nuts and Volts!" Mellark and I chorus. I _knew_ Beetee Latier had to have been a bigger part of this operation.

"I was in talks with some of Capitol's important distributors the day I ran into you, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumbass," Katniss continues, referring to me and Mellark. Prim, gaze still trained on Annie's dusty floorboards, giggles.

Given how neither of us could have anticipated that she was always a step ahead of us, I'll allow that one.

"Capitol Vehicles' Annual Auto Show is tonight, and everyone, including my Grandfather, is going to be there."

"So, you were planning on showing the second reel to the distributors at the Show?" Prim deduces. Katniss nods.

"It was a tough nut to crack, but the rebels eventually figured out that the fastest way to get the message out to the last stronghold on Capitol is by releasing it tonight. Thus weakening Capitol before it goes under fire for the allegations the video makes, which it will, once I've sent the tapes to the New York lawyers who have agreed to sponsor the film. I've had rebels working undercover at the Capitol Hotel where the party is being held, figuring out the layout of the place, where Grandfather's people will most likely be when it airs, and the perfect room to show the video in."

A low whistle escapes my lips. This girl is nothing short of brilliant.

Her gray eyes flit up unmistakably toward Mellark before going on.

"But I need to be there tonight in order to give them the signal to go, and now with Cato and his warriors in the mix, the entire operation has become far more dangerous than I could have imagined. So, if you need to turn around now, I understand, but if you're willing to fight with me and the rebels…we'd be happy to have you."

For a moment, time stands still.

A week ago, I believed that only two kinds of people got involved in crime. A predator hunts its prey, and that's about as clean-cut as it got. Black and white. No gray areas.

But since the past three days have happened, I'm not so skeptical of the gray area's existence anymore. Katniss, Mellark, Snow, Cato, Blue Face, Clove, and even me…none of us fall neatly into my mind's categories anymore.

So, I go with my gut. What I feel is _right_.

"I'm with the Mockingjay," I say finally, earning a nod of respect from Katniss.

And then, I add the unthinkable. The phrase that shatters the way I've existed for ten years escapes my lips so quickly that even I almost miss it when I admit it to the room and to myself:

"But I can't do it alone."

All eyes are suddenly on Peeta Mellark.

I am unable to gauge what Mellark wants to do at this difficult crossroads Everdeen has presented us with. Undoubtably, he's considering Prim as the only factor in the equation in every calculation his brain is making.

He starts to tremble, a shaking that starts in his shoes and travels up to the messy hairs on his head. And I know, in his mind, he sees that damn bakery exploding again.

But Prim finds a way to keep him anchored. Grabbing his hand, she squeezes life and color back into her brother's face and with one simple gesture reminds us all what this case has always been about.

Hope. The one thing stronger than fear.

When Mellark finally looks up, it's at Katniss. In his eyes, I see a man seeking redemption, seeking justice, seeking _good_.

I recognize the look in his eyes as the feeling that thrums in my heart.

"I never thought I'd say this," Mellark speaks up, "but let's go watch some porn."

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

Katniss redresses us in some of Cinna's costumes, still stocked and pressed up in Annie's closet as if they were still waiting to be worn. Articles that were undeniably Finnick's clothing disguise and dress up me and Hawthorne enough to look like we will fit in at the gala. My suit hangs loosely off of my body in some areas, while Gale's pulls too tightly just about everywhere, but my skin crawls nonetheless. The man who was supposed to be wearing this outfit is dead.

And in a few hours, I might be as well.

While Hawthorne escorts Mags home, Katniss manages to find the most modest get-up in Annie's party-wear to put on Prim, who bravely accepts her armor. The scene of the two of them working together captures my full attention and gets me to stop fiddling with the oversized collar of Finnick's old shirt. As Katniss sits across from Prim on Annie's bed and paints her face with a thin coating of make-up, she jokes with her, sings with her, and keeps Prim's mind off of the terrors she has seen.

She's good with my sister. Gentle, patient, attentive.

And it makes me fall just a little harder for her.

My thoughts are interrupted when the girl occupying them breaks through my haze. She and Prim are staring at me, and how long they've been like this, I'm not sure. But they're staring at me and waiting on me to say something.

"Uh, what?" I ask, pretending like I've misheard her and doing it oh-so-eloquently.

Prim and Katniss exchange a look, and I instantly feel left out of the loop.

"I asked what you're staring at, Detective Mellark," Katniss reiterates, with a mock seriousness in her tone and expression.

Prim looks up at me, and with the layer of make-up caked on her face, outlining her eyes and lips and highlighting the colors of her already beautiful face, I can't help but be taken aback by how grown up she looks.

"You're just…uhm…good at that," I say lamely, gesturing toward Prim's face and the display of cosmetics spread out on the bed between them.

Katniss laughs, and the world pauses on the axis it spins on for just a second as time seems to stop.

"I learned from some of the best in the porn industry," she jokes, winking at me to assure me that she hasn't made my sister look like one of the guests at the Palace party. "Cinna was a gifted artist. Never underestimate the power of a good stylist."

"You know, Peeta sketches," Prim pipes up, despite my pleading look of protest as soon as I spot the wheels turning in her head.

But it's too late. The thirteen-year-old wingman strikes again.

"I doodle, Primrose," I correct her. Clarifying for Katniss, I add, "They're not good…"

"Yes they are. I've seen them. He keeps them hidden in his bedroom closet. He used to be a really good artist in high school, with paints, and stuff…"

"You were five years old; there's no way you could remember what me or my drawing skills were like in high school. And stay out of my room."

"But I remember our mother used to say art wasn't a practical profession," Prim rambles on to Katniss, ignoring me and embarrassing me simultaneously. "You should _see_ some of the things he used to make, Katniss. His teachers called him a visionary."

I grimace at the thought of my late mother, who found any opportunity I gave her (and I seemed to always unintentionally come up with new ones growing up) to take her frustration out on me. She wasn't too big on criminal justice, either, so I wouldn't credit Dear Old Mom with be any vote of support no matter what profession I may or may not have idealized about in high school.

Regardless, Katniss watches the entire interaction with a glint of amusement twinkling in her eye.

"Well, I'd love to see one of those visionary drawings sometime," she says finally. There's no hint of sarcasm, or malice, or judgement of any kind in her voice.

I return the smile she's throwing at me, its contagion catching on with Prim. I wish I could freeze this moment and live in it forever — painting this scene to come as close as I can to capturing a memory.

As Hawthorne returns and we start on our way to the Capitol Hotel for the gala, I try to preserve the image of Katniss and Prim's matching smiles in my head…just in case I need to use this thought as my last.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The Auto Show, presented by the high and mighty of Panem and Los Angeles, is just as flashy as the porn party. But the difference lies in the presentation. The flash comes from these peoples' wallets, not their style.

There's gold everywhere. Gold streamers, gold centerpieces, even waiters wearing gold ties. A golden Capitol Car spins on a rotating stand, and a voluptuous, tanned woman clad in a complementary golden evening gown models beside it.

Bright light streams into the golden patio from overhead. Helicopters with a golden Capitol logo keep watch above us in what is the priciest security I've ever seen. They look rather ominous, like they are ready to attack should anything go wrong on the ground.

A few nights ago at the Palace, we were just in eccentric company. But tonight, we dance with the corrupt elite.

Katniss' disguises keep us blending in well with the crowd. No heads turn when we step onto the premises of the outdoor courtyard, which means so far, so good.

"The rebels are waiting in their positions. This is where I leave you," Katniss says, her lips barely moving as we continue to push through the crowd. But the message is clear enough. It's time for this Mockingjay to take flight.

"What do you need us to do?" Gale asks, keeping his head lowered as he speaks into his sleeve.

"Find Beetee. He has the tape stashed in the projection room. Make sure he secures the footage, and then meet me upstairs," Katniss orders. "I'll be on the roof, organizing the rebel coalition from the sky for the ambush at midnight."

She fishes into her clutch, a pearly white accessory to match her stunning forest green dress, and pulls out a golden chain. Attached is a watch with the symbol of a bird holding an arrow in its mouth clasped over it. A bird, I realize, that must be the Mockingjay.

"If you find that you run into trouble, look for this symbol. The rebels are just about everywhere here tonight."

In one sweeping glance, the perimeter around me suddenly glows with Mockingjays. They are covertly placed, but to anyone looking for them, the symbol is loud and clear.

The rebels have invaded Capitol.

"Don't doubt yourselves. You two have proven to be viable assets to the cause. With your help, we may actually be able to expose these fuckers for who they really are," Katniss says, beaming.

Hawthorne snorts, smirking ironically. "Well, if that doesn't happen, then we've certainly failed at our jobs."

Quickly, she prepares us for battle. Katniss silently salutes to us by pressing three fingers to her lips. She crouches down and envelops Prim in a hug.

"Any last advice?" I ask her before we part ways, in what may be for good.

Katniss smiles at me. She reaches out, touching my arm just above the cast, and the electromagnetic field between us sputters and sparks.

"Stay alive. See you at midnight," she says, starting to turn away and run toward the elevator at the back of the courtyard.

Our guide disappears, leaving a path for us to follow behind her.

I look to Hawthorne, and then to Prim. Unsure of what the near future holds, we step further into the muggy summer air of the Capitol Auto Show and mesh in with the rich and the rebellious.

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

Eventually, we find Beetee. Battered, bruised, and left to die in a dumpster out behind the Capitol Hotel.

One of the kitchen workers says he saw him go back there with some 'scary looking dude' just moments before we arrived. His legs are twisted in unnatural positions as he lays strewn atop piles of stinking garbage. They are clearly broken, along with his trademark spectacles.

Beetee moans in pain, but eventually his unfocused eyes remain on us long enough to recognize who stands before him in his final moments.

We don't have to ask him who did this. We already know who is responsible for yet another life taken on this mission.

"Ca—to," Beetee wheezes, entire body shuddering. It makes my insides twist.

Prim whimpers, and Peeta pulls her back inside to keep her away from the sight he takes in with horror, the sight he knows will only end in tears for her.

I remain firmly planted at the crime scene, and out of earshot from everyone but Nuts 'n' Volts. If me and Mellark are this guy's Richard Nixon, then we owe him at least a thank you for his helping us get here.

"We will take care of him for you, Latier," I tell Beetee, making sure to keep my voice gentle. Neither Mellark nor his sister need to know that I have made Cato my personal mission. I'll kill him before he kills either of them, mark my words. "Did you get the film secured upstairs?"

Beetee attempts to answer. Instead, a violent cough practically shakes the whole dumpster. Blood starts to pour from Beetee's bruised lips as he groans. His eyes start to roll into the back of his head, and I realize that we're losing him, which means he can't take us to the projection room.

I have to move onto the next question.

Gently gripping his shoulders, I ask Beetee where the projector is.

"Fl—oor T-t-t-twelve," he croaks. "R-o-oooom one — seventy — six…"

Under his cracked lenses, his eyes, fading duller by the second, meet mine.

"G-g-get tho—ose _bastards._ "

With his dying breath, Beetee Latier fights for the rebel cause.

Now that we know Cato is here and in pursuit of the same room we are, I have very little time to mourn the quirky old genius. Sadness weighs heavily in my bones as I reach out, remove his glasses, and close his eyes for him out of respect. With haste, I fold his thick-rimmed, shattered bifocals and place them in his breast pocket.

I hurry back inside the hotel and address the Mellark siblings, relaying what I now know from Beetee.

"Cato's here," I announce.

"Shit!" Mellark's voice skyrockets to about three octaves higher than it already is.

"But we've got a room: Twelfth Floor, Room 176," I tack on. "Let's get there before he does."

The elevator ride up to Floor Twelve of the Capitol Building is slow and tense. Mellark keeps itching his neck, which has begun to break out in nervous hives. It's either nerves or the fact he hasn't been near a drink all day. Prim's practically sweated off all of her make-up, looking more and more like an out of place thirteen-year-old with each bead of sweat that runs down her forehead.

And me? I just want to punch a hole through the wall. Or if I find him first, through Cato.

Eventually, we pour out of the elevator to a rather quiet, but otherwise normal hotel floor. The carpets are shabby-looking, the lighting is dim and yellow, and the pale green paint on the walls is just beginning to chip.

A bellhop walks by, and Mellark works his magic.

"Excuse me," he says, an uncharacteristic, yet highly believable smile plastered on his face. He grips Prim's shoulders calmly, and Prim plays her part, blinking innocently.

"My daughter and I are supposed to be meeting her uncle for the party tonight, but someone told me he was up here. Did you happen to see a very tall, blonde, probably brooding man — around thirty years old? Kind of dead stare?"

The bellhop nods.

"Yeah, he just left this floor with some girl."

"Aunt Clove!" Prim pipes up, prompting us to note that Clove is also on the prowl. Good ears on this kid.

"I guess so," the young bellhop says, humoring Prim's fake excitement. "Said they were going to get a drink — with a girl who had a funny sounding name."

"Oh, that must be my cousin, Katniss," Prim infers again under the guise of what is slowly becoming the family reunion from hell.

"Yeah, sounds like the one they were talkin' about," the bellhop confirms.

"Thank you, guy," Peeta, still saccharine as pure sugar, calls to him before we book it down the hall.

The bellhop hollers back, "How'd you know my name is Guy?"

But we're too wrapped up in our frenzy to note Mellark's lucky accident with the bellhop.

"So that means he was here already, with Clove, and they may or may not have the tape," I conclude about what we were just told about Cato.

"If Latier really had it ready in the projector, then there's a good chance Cato left with the tape," Mellark reasons. "In that case, we're fucking _screwed_ …"

"Unless they heard Katniss was here and went to investigate for her first," Prim also quips. "There's still a half hour before midnight strikes."

"Only one way to find out," I conclude, pointing to our destination just a few rooms down from where we stand in the hall.

When we reach Room 176, the door is unlocked, and the room is empty, save for the giant projector set up in the center of it — just like the one Katniss pulled out of hiding in Annie's house. There are dozens of reels and their containers scattered throughout the room.

Prim volunteers to keep watch while Mellark and I scour the room for the film in question.

We aren't searching for very long before hope starts to run dry. There is a film in the projector, but we have no way of knowing if this is _the_ tape without tampering with Beetee's possible handiwork or showing the damn thing too early. Cato easily could have switched the tape.

So we start scrambling for an empty case with the telltale line 'If we burn, you burn with us' labeled on it.

"Fuck, shit, fuck…" Mellark hisses as he unravels what looks to be the reel for an informational video on train wreck evacuation plans, "He's got it. Cato's got the film."

"Check to see if Latier might have stashed it somewhere. If Cato switched the reels, we have to figure out what's in that projector. And if we can't find it here, we'll have to go straight to him..."

We're both searching so furiously that neither of us hears the door click shut as an intruder joins us and cocks a gun into position.

"Freeze! Weapons on the floor _now_!" a hard-edged voice shocks us both.

Mellark shrieks, and I whirl around, knowing that I've heard this voice before.

What the fuck?

Clad in a pink ballgown, a neat up-do, and rosy red lips that are upturned in a wicked smile, Madge Undersee has us cornered.

* * *

 **A/N: Hello! Had a brief reprieve from my schoolwork so I thought I'd update. Sorry to leave you with that cliffhanger there, but based on reviews, I know some of you must have seen this coming. Now that Madge has them cornered, what's going to happen next? There's an action-packed chapter up ahead, so be on the lookout for that.**

 **Thank you for continuing to support this fun little writing experiment that I have grown to really love. Keep letting me know what you think in your reviews, I love hearing from you!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	11. Ten: Stayin' Alive

**Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The Hunger Games_** **, nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film** ** _The Nice Guys._** **All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Ten: Stayin' Alive *~*~*~***

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

It comes as a bit of a shock to discover that this whole time, Hawthorne has _literally_ been getting fucked by the enemy.

Hawthorne, however, is having a problem with getting his head wrapped around that concept. The lovesick look in his eyes over Katniss' blonde cousin turns this stony giant into a puddle of mush. He seems to be overlooking the gun-shaped elephant in the room, though.

"Madge!" he breathes.

Her gun remains pointed at us. Madge simply smirks at the set-up, and it's all it takes to know that being on the other end of the barrel is definitely not a mistake. Hawthorne keeps ogling at everything like an idiot. Although it's all in absolute earnest, Madge must think he's only _playing_ the fool, and her icy blue eyes narrow as Hawthorne babbles us even further into our graves.

"I don't know what's going on here, but there's been some foul play. You know that present you gave me for Katniss? Somebody switched it out, and there was no pin in it."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes along with Undersee at Hawthorne's naivety with that freebie. Once Katniss came to me with the "gift" from her grandfather, it all started to become clear. We were supposed to be pulled away from my house as a distraction to allow Cato to come and kill Katniss (and everyone else) off, and my being there when Cato arrived caused a glitch in the plan. Gale blinks, obviously taken aback as he reaches the conclusion I've already come to: Madge has been working for Snow this whole time, and she played Gale Hawthorne like a finely tuned piano.

But you can't choose the one you love. Or, in both of our cases, the one you blindly abandon your senses for.

Madge scoffs and laughs right in his face. Her hard, acerbic words are laced with sweet mockery, "No shit. Now, I'm not going to say it again, gentlemen. Weapons on the floor!"

I sigh, and soon enough my hand gun skids along the marble tile defeatedly. I shoot my worst scowl to the petite blonde when it hits the expensive shoes she wears under her pink dress. Hawthorne, who stares mutely at her in horror, needs a little nudge, but he quickly follows the order. His hands fly toward the sky in surrender.

I heave a huge sigh. It's clear that he's been rendered virtually useless until he regroups, which means that it's up to me to get us out of the most recent pickle we've found ourselves in.

"Madge," I say, trying my hand at negotiating with her, "C'mon now. Have you ever really killed anyone?"

Her smirk is sinister, expression unchanged. "Yeah. In Detroit. Three times."

Now, I'm a little taken aback.

"Really?"

If looks could kill, Madge Undersee would have just blown me to bits, making me her fourth casualty.

"That's where this all started. Plutarch Heavensbee and his crazy little puppet Cresta going off at the Detroit Auto Show six months ago, trying to coerce anyone who would listen into their silly little rebellion and blabbering on about this movie…and then, of course, when word of Katniss' involvement came out and put our family's integrity at risk, things became _personal…_ "

"Ha, integrity," I jeer with a snort.

"Can it, Shortie, or my finger might just slip," Madge fires right back, aiming the bullet's trajectory at my head. Fuck her.

"Madge," Gale interrupts. The barrel of the gun is wordlessly shifted from me to him, and I loudly let out the breath I didn't even realize I had been holding. Hawthorne keeps his hands raised skyward. "What's going on? I thought you were on our side. You just wanted Katniss safe…This isn't you."

I stare at him with absolute incredulity. Did he not just hear her shamelessly admit to being a murderer, or am I just imagining things?

"Hawthorne, she just said she killed three people," I deadpan.

Gale gestures rather grandiosely toward his heart and shoots me a look of disbelief for my having imparted _very rational_ judgement on his little girlfriend — if we can even call her that. He keeps his hands up, still completely at the mercy of this temptress' spell.

"I know, but I'm saying, deep down. This isn't her."

"Okay, you have got to snap out of it, man. One's a mistake. By the time you get to three—"

"Don't paint her with that brush, Mellark. It's easy to live in your world, where the glass is always half empty and everything and everyone is out to get you —"

"Hawthorne, are you serious?" I sputter, blinking, "See. What's. In. Front. Of. You. She has a gun pointed at your fucking head!"

"You don't know why that is…"

"I've got a pretty good idea why that is!"

"Will you two just _shut up_ already?!" Madge practically shrieks, successfully shutting us both up as we recall the dire circumstances of our predicament.

We've slowed her down quite a bit with our banter, and it's clear by her physical appearance. Several perfectly-done curls have fallen in her eyes. At least we've managed to wither away some of her composure, which shows in tiny, distressed lines on her otherwise flawless face.

I can see why Hawthorne likes her so much. Everything about her is perfectly symmetrical. Prim and Rue have told me countless times while gushing over celebrities in magazines that symmetry is a sign of natural beauty.

And Madge Undersee is no exception to this rule of thumb.

But then again, I'm more of a brunettes guy. So the whole symmetry thing isn't phasing me.

Madge's symmetrical nose crinkles as her symmetrical eyes fly toward the ceiling and her symmetrical lips open to let out the most biting laughter I've ever heard.

"You think you have any idea who I am? Oh, please. My grandfather is a very powerful man. He made my father the Mayor of this shitty little town, and if he could do that for him, imagine what Grandfather can do for me. Do you honestly think I would throw all of that away for my ungrateful delinquent of a cousin and a low-life enforcer with nothing to his name and no one who would ever notice if he disappeared?"

She's hitting all of his pressure points, and it's downright evil. His hatred for corruption, his abandonment issues, his failed engagement...I can see it in the way he twists away in anguish. The look of shock, hurt, betrayal on his face is enough to skewer anyone with a heart in half. But that vindictive Mayor's brat keeps her stupid fucking sexy smile on her face like she's unaffected by the fact that she messed with probably one of the last good men left on this Earth.

And I won't stand for it.

"Hey, Lady. Fuck you, alright? Hawthorne's no low-life! He may be grumpy and lack certain social skills, but he's the best goddamned detective I know."

Madge sneers and shifts the gun to be aligned with my temple, "Coming from the drunk, that's a real vote of confidence."

"Joke's on you, because the politically correct term is 'alcoholic' nowadays," I retort, swallowing the lump that has formed in my throat.

She ignores me and returns to her assault on Gale, who stands there and takes it like a man. Meanwhile, I fight her like a less dignified man.

"Sweet, innocent, brave Gale Hawthorne…such a _good guy_ ," she purrs, sauntering up to him. She begins toying with his collar seductively with one hand while the other aims her gun at me.

"Fucking psycho!" I hiss as the cool barrel digs into the skin at my hairline.

"Gale Hawthorne is not like the others. That's what they say. Farmer's Market Guy is a hero, an untouchable hero."

"What are you doing?" I shout at her. "Get your hands off him!"

Madge ignores me, just like every girl with a symmetrical face has in my past, and continues to taunt Gale.

"Well, hero or not, you're a man, Mister Hawthorne. And I know that no man can resist certain…urges…"

"You lied to me," Hawthorne grumbles. "You used me…"

"Of course I did, silly. All I had to do was bat my eyes and flash some skin, and you were yapping away, giving away all of your secrets…it was almost too easy."

The hand that's been stroking his chest surprises his groin with a sneak-attack grab below the belt that makes Hawthorne cry out.

"Stop distracting him with your sensuality! That's not fair!" I plead to Madge, despite the gun pressing harder against my temple following the outburst. I'm less than an inch away from having my brain splattered on the wall, and I don't want Hawthorne being castrated as my last visual.

Her eyes casually stroll between our horrified expressions, and Madge has a laugh at each of our expenses.

"Oh, boys, I'm just playing the game. And all is fair in love and war."

Hawthorne groans involuntarily as Madge presses her body up against him.

"Jesus Christ! Resist, Hawthorne!"

"By the way," Madge croons, gripping onto Hawthorne's junk like it's a toy and coming dangerously close to his earlobe to nip at it, "I faked all of those orgasms."

"YOU BITCH!" I shriek at her.

Meanwhile, Hawthorne struggles to hold on. Sweat emerges on his brow in thick beads, and his teeth are bared and gritted. Despite every low blow that should be telling his body to react otherwise to the ministrations, I know he's avoiding thinking about Madge's hand on his dick at all costs.

So, I start talking to her. That's got to be enough to get him nice and flaccid.

"Let me guess, your Grandfather's been tipping Cato off about everyone…down to Finnick Odair and the projectionist."

Madge keeps her gaze trained on Hawthorne.

"Grandfather and Cato are associates, yes."

"And he was hired by Capitol with Clove and Blue Face to get rid of this film?"

"You're smarter than you look, for an _alcoholic_."

"Well, don't use it in a derogatory way like that. It defeats the politically correct thing we talked about…"

There's suddenly a knock on the door, and a deep female voice announces that room service is waiting outside.

This does the trick. Gale suddenly snaps back to life as he jumps out of Madge's grasp, panting wildly. Madge stumbles away from us, but she keeps her hold on the gun steady.

Hawthorne then uses this as an opportunity to make a move. Unfortunately, it's one nobody can seem to follow. He dives to the floor and starts frantically grabbing at my ankles.

It looks like we have a plan. Which, to my knowledge, is not the case. Madge's eyebrows raise in suspicion, and I hold up a hand to stop the gun from coming any closer.

"Shit, no…don't shoot," I tell her.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Madge asks, making a face of disgust at Hawthorne as he feels up my lower half.

"I don't know," I tell our possible murderer honestly. "I'm gonna ask."

I revert my attention back to Hawthorne, who now has his hand snaked pretty far up my pant leg as he grips my bare calf.

"Hawthorne?" I ask, trying my best to keep everything from going to shit as I press a smile hard against my bloodless lips.

"Yeah..." he answers, still focused on grabbing _my_ junk, apparently.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Now, I'm starting to lose whatever calm charade I have been putting up.

"Did you move it?" Hawthorne shouts incriminatingly at me.

I look at him as if he's sprouted two heads, which he may as well have with how uncharacteristically uncool he's acting right now.

"Move what?"

"The fucking gun!" Hawthorne announces. Madge's trigger aims downward to him, and my gaze zips up to her.

"What gun?" I ask, trying to keep up enough of an air of confidence for both of our sakes before Madge loses it.

"The fucking ankle gun!"

My eyes flash up at Madge's boiling red face for a moment of brief panic before returning to the newest problem: Hawthorne's apparent insanity. "Who told you I had an ankle gun? And who slipped hallucinogens into your coffee this morning?"

Still on the floor, Hawthorne starts to argue with me, "Yesterday, in the car. You said you had insurance and slid your pant leg up as if to be like 'Ooh, look at me and my ankle gun!' right before we crashed…"

"Are you fucking serious, Hawthorne?" I shout over his tall tale. "I can't afford an ankle gun. I can barely afford _silverware!"_

Hawthorne finally calms down when he reaches a personal revelation. His eyes grow wide and his cheeks turn bright red in embarrassment.

"Aw, shit. I dreamt that, didn't I?"

I groan audibly. For fuck's sake. Now's not the time to make a mistake like this.

"Yeah, you did, you moron."

"Just shut up! Both of you _shut up_!" Madge cries out in her shrill voice. Given that I _don't_ have an ankle gun and she's still the only person in the room with a weapon, we're inclined to follow that order.

The knocking on the door persists.

"Room service!" a muffled voice calls out from behind the door again.

As Madge goes to answer the door, I take a stab at the man who still resides on the floor with his hand up my pants.

"I thought I was supposed to be the bumbling idiot in this operation, but this takes the fucking cake," I hiss accusingly, only to be shushed by Madge.

"Prim, you can come in now," Madge says, keeping her eyes and their wicked glint trained on me as I realize, with horror, that my sister is the one waiting on the other end of that door.

And now she's trapped in here with us.

Prim shamefully wheels the cart of food and fancy silver trays into the room with her head hung low.

"Very clever, Primrose," Madge says, sarcastically applauding her efforts to save the day.

From under the veil of her hair cascading over her shoulder, I catch Prim grinning.

"Thanks," Prim replies. "I thought so, too…"

She works quickly to tighten her grip around the handle of a steel coffee pot and pivots on her heels, throwing dark brown liquid all over our assailant. Madge shrieks. Her light pink gown and most of her hair and make-up are successfully ruined. But otherwise, Madge is unharmed.

Wiping the liquid from her eyes, Madge eyes my younger sister with disdain.

"Why did you just pour cold coffee on me?"

Realization sets in on my sister's pale face. Prim, expression running the gamut of every emotion close enough to disappointment and dread, trains her gaze on the floor.

"I got it in the hallway. I thought it was hot," she confesses.

My eyebrows raise, impressed with her thought process on that one. Other than an few rookie mistakes and way too big of a moral compass, the kid would make a great detective. I point to Prim and toss her a grateful smile, commending her on a job almost well-done.

"I like where your head's at, Little Duck. That really could have worked out."

Madge dismissively shoves Prim in the back with the gun, sending her flying toward me.

"That's enough. Get into the corner!"

Prim runs into my arms and I hold her tight. Madge's smile twists into one of pure, uninhibited evil. Slowly, she brings her gun back up to be pointed at us.

I've just figured out which direction I can throw Prim in to spare her from a bullet in the chest when Madge's high heel slips in the puddle of coffee pooled at her feet. She screams with a start as she goes down, just as she pulls the trigger of the gun. The bullet flies over our heads and hits a light in the ceiling, causing it to spark before burning out completely.

The room is suddenly still and silent. Madge has been knocked unconscious. Neither me nor Hawthorne can believe our luck.

"Well, that really worked out," I say to both him and Primrose, who eyes the scene she inadvertently created with shock as we retrieve our weapons. "Now, we've just gotta find Katniss before Cato does."

"Yeah, well the bellhop said he was going for a drink. You and Prim take the rooftop bar, and I'll go downstairs," Hawthorne says, stepping right over Madge's unmoving body as he wanders over to the door. Madge's deceit is one spurning he'll be able to get over, thankfully. Offering Prim a high-five for the number she did on Madge, he adds, "Nice work, Kiddo."

"Thanks," Prim mutters, mouth still hanging open in disbelief.

Before he leaves, he flashes a look over his shoulder.

"Hey, Mellark…that stuff you said back there…defending me. Uh, thanks for that."

It's the first time he's ever acknowledged our partnership, really. And the first time he's ever admitted to having feelings beyond his usual stony demeanor. I start smiling, despite myself.

"That's what partners are for," I say, shrugging, "It's no big deal."

Prim grins at me like it's a huge deal, and I silence her assumptions with a hard stare down. If all goes well, our partnership reaches its end tonight. Hawthorne disappears, and Prim and I run up the last few flights of stairs to the rooftop bar.

When we reach the top, I am winded, but Prim's barely broken a sweat. She scans the perimeter for Katniss, determination hard set in the blue eyes we inherited from our father.

Once, when she was eight-years-old, she brought home a cat. This mangy yellow thing with matted fur and half its ear missing. He looked like she found him on the side of the road, which turned out exactly to be the case. Prim even named the damned thing Buttercup, although it was nothing like its sweet, bright namesake. He hissed and clawed at me too damn much to be a Buttercup.

After nursing the cat back to health, she asked if we could keep it. For her, Buttercup was a friend, a light in the darkness that still haunted her in her sleep. For me, he was a nuisance. I was just beginning my night classes, trying to earn a degree that will earn me more than a grocery store baker's salary, and a cat was just another mouth to feed. Another life I would be held accountable for.

But Prim begged, pleaded, said she'd do anything to take care of the fur ball. And I caved.

One night, when she went to a sleepover a year later, she made me pinky promise to look after Buttercup. I accidentally left the back door open after one of my binges, and the cat escaped — probably to look for the nicer Mellark that actually wanted him around.

I felt like shit, and the sting of Prim's look when she realized I had broken my word sometimes still lingers with me, especially whenever she gives me that look now. It tells me to put down the alcohol…and stop letting her down. Which I haven't quite figured out how to do, even after all these years.

It was then I vowed to never again question the severity of a pinky promise. Luckily, she hasn't used that move on me since the debacle with Buttercup.

When I station Prim at the nearest exit on the roof and tell her to run and hide should she come into any danger, I am thrown off when she starts a quick round of Real or Not Real.

"Real or not real: you're going to find Katniss and keep her safe?"

"Real," I tell her, eyes scanning the affluent crowd of glass-clinkers and fake-laughers for any sign of Everdeen.

"Real or Not Real: you're going to get that tape?"

"Real."

"Real or not real: we're going to stay alive?"

"Real."

"Pinky promise?" Prim suddenly asks instead of another question in the usual sequence. Her smallest finger juts out toward me. It nearly throws me off balance, it's that shocking to be hearing.

I waver in my resolve for just a moment, feeling that creeping sense of inadequacy starting to take over and warp my brain into a screaming mess once again. What if I break another promise to her? What if I fail the one person who I've tried to be good for?

But when Prim looks at me, it isn't with that same look she used to give me after I lost her cat. It's different. Hopeful, confident, and filled with love…like for once in her life, she can take stock in the fact that I will not let her down.

Going off of that look, I take my pinky and wrap it around hers.

"Pinky promise," I tell her, signing onto one of the most contractually binding agreements I could ever make. "Now stay here. I'll see you soon."

Prim hugs me quickly before we part ways.

 _Shit,_ I think as I stalk across the rooftop and realize the importance of my gesture to Prim. Now, I've _really_ got to step up my game.

As irony would have it, my search for Katniss has me stumbling directly into a barstool while I'm not paying attention. It's as if the universe feels like rubbing it my face that all of my previous failures have started and ended at barstools just like the one that has bruised my ribcage now.

I groan. When in Rome, I guess…Without looking up, I raise my hand to catch the bartender's attention. Immediately, I begin to berate myself after the fact. Honestly, Mellark, have you no shame? No sense of willpower? No dignity?

"What can I getcha?" the bartender asks, her voice biting, sharp, and vaguely familiar as she cuts off my self-indulgent self-loathing rant.

I don't bother looking up. I'm too disappointed in myself.

"Bourbon, please."

Soon, the drink is pushed my way, followed by a snide remark that causes me to look up.

"Consider this one on the house, Blondie."

Johanna Mason's eyes glitter when I finally look up at her from my reflection in the amber liquid and the Mockingjay symbol discreetly scribbled on the napkin beneath the clear glass.

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

Just as I start to make my way toward the crowd of Capitolites when the ostentatious golden clock at the center of the square rings out to signal midnight's arrival. The elite erupt in cheers and drinks are tossed back in honor of the night just beginning.

If only they understood the half of it.

Like clockwork — for lack of a better word — as soon as the chiming stops, a four-note whistle sounds.

The wall adjacent to the giant clock is illuminated by a bright light, accompanied by the sound of whirring film running through a projector. The image of 'Heavensbabies', Plutarch's signature production name and logo, washes over the hotel wall. The crowd falls silent as all heads turn toward the interruption.

Euphoria swells like a balloon in my chest. By some stroke of luck, it looks like the film in the projector was the right one after all, and Cato didn't get his hands on it.

The tape seems to have been set up to start somewhere in the middle of the film, at the high point of conflict. Annie Cresta, clad in a blue pin-striped suit that reveals just enough cleavage to remind everyone watching that this has been produced as a porno, sits at a desk that looks an awful lot like a model of the one in Snow's office.

Opposite Annie stands an older actor with a shitty white wig and a glued-on beard to resemble a pornographic caricature of Snow. Another man with wild, intricately-shaved facial hair — this man is just particularly hairy in general, the more you stare at him — stands beside the actor representing Snow.

Cresta introduces them by name, Snow and Seneca Crane, CEO of the Capitol Auto Company before going into a spiel about the harmful effects of the cars' catalytic converter.

 _"You poisoned our air, and the people won't stand for it!"_ Annie shouts, slamming her fists on the table and pushing her breasts out in a way that I can imagine would be highly effective for audiences in terms of the commercial elements Katniss made claims of.

 _"You can't stop us!"_ the actor playing Seneca cries out. _"The Justice Department has been working with us for years — since 1976, to be exact — to make sure that Capitol cars stay on top of all the other companies by defending our model…"_

General murmuring ripples through the crowd. Most of the voices around me sound concerned, as if this were the first time any of them were hearing of the collusion between Capitol and the California government.

One voice in particular stands out as being far more menacing than the others'.

"Block all of the exits. Find the rebels — I want all of them turned in. Get me that film," Snow demands to the crew of meathead guards surrounding him. Although his voice is threatening, there's a terrified look of being threatened in his eyes as he watches a sexualized version of himself start to make out with Breasta in front of an audience of thousands. Mister Snow, it seems, isn't used to being the prey in the natural pecking order of society.

"And do it _fast,_ gentlemen," he orders, his papery skin as white as his beard.

The guards scatter, hustling and elbowing through the transfixed, confused crowd toward every entrance in the vicinity. I start after them, keeping my head down around Snow. I cannot let the projection room be compromised by these henchmen.

Sounds of pants and groans echo though the hotel square from the film that still proudly plays on. All three actors take turns exchanging kisses and running their hands over each others' bodies as they lean up against the wall of the office.

 _"I know you're usually persuaded with monetary agreements,"_ Annie says breathily to her partners. Snow kisses her neck while Seneca runs a hand up her thigh. _"But I have some other ideas for how you can be persuaded to join our cause…"_

Gunshots sound from where the revolving display car turns at the other end of the fancy veranda gardens. They're aimed for the open hotel window where the projector sits in Room 176. Rich people screams — which somehow manage to be more grating than the screams of Average Joes — overpower the sounds from the video as people begin to stampede around the courtyard in search of shelter from the raining bullets.

An explosion goes off in one of the model cars on display, sending the car up in flames and the people around it up in hysterics.

It comes as no surprise to me when I round the corner and find Cato standing stoically in the middle of the mayhem, shooting off his gun at the projector.

He sports a twisted grin, or as close as someone as sadistic as him can get to grinning, when he spots me standing just ten feet away from him. A steady stream of crazed guests runs through the space between us, so no one raises a gun just yet. Cato may be a fan of killing for sport, but he isn't wasteful.

"Mister Hawthorne," he says, an annoying lack of surprise laced in his voice. I think he must have known his knife work wasn't enough to kill me. "What a pleasure it is to have you back."

I grimace. That was both a terrible pun and an unnecessary jab, and I have very little tolerance for either of those.

"I would love to stay and chat, but I have a film to destroy," Cato starts.

"Funny. I actually have one to save," I reply evenly, matching his tone with my own sarcasm. I'm starting to sound like Mellark with all this witty small talk.

Cato shakes his head. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

And then he fires his gun, beginning a shootout I know he will not back down easily from.

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

"Didn't you ever teach your little sister that it's not polite to eavesdrop on other people's plans?"

I'm stumbling around the terrace when Clove's sharp voice breaks through all of the noise on the roof that has erupted with the video now playing. A belch rises in my throat, and I try stifling it in my sleeve for formality's sake — which doesn't work.

My sister, meanwhile, stands several feet away from where I am trying to gain purchase on all of the furniture that seems to be moving further away from me every time I go to reach for it. She trembles beneath the blade of one of Clove's sharp knives, which hovers dangerously close to the pulse point at her neck, but puts on her bravest face anyway. Clove's other hand is wrapped tightly over Prim's chest, restraining her movements and keeping her pinned down.

She must have, in classic Primrose Mellark fashion, caught Clove in the middle of plotting with Cato and gotten caught doing so.

"Don't you hurt her, you hear me?" I slur angrily at the knife-wielding short stop. Clove's eyes narrow as Prim's jaw unhinges in something that looks a lot like a perfect blend of anger and disappointment.

"Are you drunk?" Clove asks, amusement laced in her incredulous remark.

I smile, like a grinning idiot, and manage to fire back, "No, you are."

"Unbelievable," Clove says, voice low. There's hidden enjoyment in her statement, like she knows just how easy I've made this for her. "You're drunk on the job! What kind of cop are you? What kind of _brother_ puts his sister in danger and hurts her like this?"

As she berates me, I let the implications hit me as hard as they do when I'm sober and lacking my shield. Letting emotion overcome me, I hiss _"Fuck"_ and bring my hand up to cover my sunglass-covered eyes.

"Do you want her to see you like this?" Clove taunts, pulling Prim closer to her. My sister eyes me with utter contempt. "Stop crying, you drunk piece of shit."

"I fucked up," I whimper through my tears.

"Worthless drunk," Clove leers.

My words become indecipherable squeaks as my breakdown mounts.

Looking at my sister, I shrug in defeat, as if to say that I am for once without any defenses. Prim's shoulders slump ever so slightly. This may be it for us both.

And I know what she must be thinking. It's just our luck — our awful, shitty, luck — that we ended up in these positions, even after everything.

"I love you," I tell Prim, watching her lower lip begin to quiver as cruel fate sets in.

"This is just embarrassing," Clove chides.

"I'm sorry," I say to Prim, getting even more worked up. Prim's intake of breath is sharp, like she's preparing herself for the death slice that is going to be traced across her throat.

But Primrose seems to have forgotten what I pinky promised.

"Duck," I say finally, still dripping with false tears of defeat.

Prim blinks and stiffens, "What?"

I whip off my glasses, revealing to both her and Clove two completely clear eyes that have been evaluating this whole scene and watching Katniss over their heads to give her the cue she's been waiting for on one of the roof's higher levels.

"Duck, Little Duck," I tell Prim again, my voice now hard and lacking any trace of sorrow or intoxication.

Prim follows the order just in time. Katniss, who gave Johanna the message to tell me to pretend to be drinking after she witnessed Cato telling Clove to seek us out, lets her arrow rip through the air.

It lands without fail on her target, sinking into the flesh just above Clove's lungs and successfully puncturing them.

Eyes wide and wheezing in search of air, the small woman drops her knife as she crashes backward into the ledge. Before she can tumble over and begin to fall down six stories, she grabs my sister's elbow. Prim cries out in terror as she begins to be pulled backward by Clove's momentum.

I don't think. I just act. Because if I don't, my sister will die.

Shouting her name, I spring forward, breaking Prim free of Clove's grasp just in time for her to regain her balance.

Unfortunately for me, this sends both Clove and I plummeting toward the courtyard and Auto Show below.

The scream that tumbles from my lips can hardly be classified as human. The last image I see is of Prim and Katniss worriedly peering over the ledge, helplessly watching my descent. The last sound I hear is the gruesome crunching of Clove's bones making contact with the concrete ground.

The last thing I feel is wetness. I'm surrounded by it, buried deep and floating in what is undoubtedly a wet chrysalis of my subconscious, post-mortem regrets. But when I open my eyes, I am shocked to find that I am not swimming in a metaphorical pool in the afterlife, but in the actual pool on the ground level of the Capitol Hotel.

I am still alive, by some miracle.

But based on the way my limbs limply float, my body temperature plummets, and my heartbeat slows in my ears, I won't be alive for much longer if I stay down here.

The unmistakeable _glub-glub_ of a voice I've heard on television so many times before causes me to whip my head around.

And there he is. All five-feet-eleven-inches of him floating at the other end of the pool and pointing a vindictive finger at me. His thick eyebrows guard his dark eyes, which lower at me. His sagging jowls pull his protruding jaw deeper into a frown.

"Nixon!" I cry out, my voice morphed by the water.

He floats toward me, finger still raised to drag me to wherever the hell it is people who see Nixon before they die go.

I have no intention of joining that club.

"No!" I shout at the former President of the United States before pushing my way up to the party.

I'm still screaming when I break the water's surface. Immediately, my lungs burn as they gasp for greedy gulps of air while my arms make lazy work of wading in order to keep me afloat. Behind me, one of the giant display cars explodes, and I am tempted to crawl back under the water and stay there till this is all over. Everyone's screaming. Hell, I want to scream again too.

All the while, my mind races with one thought: _How am I still alive?_

Before I can come up with a logical answer to my seemingly superhuman ability to scrape by, I close my eyes, hold my breath, and start to plunge back underwater. I am pulled out of the pool by the armpits and into the embrace of someone sobbing hysterically before I submerge myself again.

This voice calling my name is too old to be Prim's, and too feminine to be Gale's, and too alive to be Clove's. My mystery lifeguard lays me down gently, stroking the wet hair out of my eyes as she weeps above me.

When I open my eyes, Katniss Everdeen gasps.

Please, whoever is up there...God, Nixon, anyone...let this be real.

"Oh my God!" she cries, wiping the tears that cascade down her beautiful face.

"Careful," I wheeze, head lolling toward the pool she just pulled me from. "There's a swimming pool over there."

She laughs, despite all the snot and tears pouring out of her. Well, if my heart stopped, it's certainly working now.

"I ran as fast as I could…I thought you were dead," she says through heaving sobs.

Why she cares so much, I'm not sure. But she's shaking and sniveling like I mean something to her, and I can't help but make a connection between us and Orpheus and Eurydice, the Star-Crossed Lovers. If something truly had happened to me, she wouldn't have been okay. She, like Orpheus, would have been dragged down into the depths of the underworld in search of a way to redeem us both. Maybe it's a stretch, but it still feels like fate.

I guess, if we're still drawing parallels here, that makes me poor Eurydice. Can't complain, though, since I get a better ending than the ancient nymph does.

"Had to follow your advice and stay alive," I reply.

My breath is taken away once again when she leans down and crashes her lips against mine.

Once I get over the initial shock of it all, I savor each mounting sensation. Her mouth moves in frantic patterns as it slants against mine, and as her hands snake around my neck, mine tangle themselves in her dark hair, letting it run over my fingers like water.

If just looking at her is electrifying, kissing her is a thousand volts straight to the heart.

Eventually, we break apart and come up for air. Katniss' smile is iridescent as she locks eyes with me.

"Stay with me?" I ask, still out of breath. Whether it's the near-death plummet or the kiss doing that, I'm still unsure. I have no intention of letting her out of my sight. Not while things are exploding around us, at least.

Katniss beams. "Absolutely."

And I think that maybe I should lighten up when it comes to my luck. After all, it's kept me alive, saved my sister, and brought me Katniss Everdeen.

My brief moment of ecstasy is brutally disrupted when a bullet flies between our heads.

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

Cato continues to shoot into the crowd, fighting off rebels who charge at him with various weapons that are ultimately no match for his brute strength.

I seek out momentary refuge by barricading myself behind a giant archway, flashing with red and gold lights.

Knowing that I cannot make the same mistake as last time and be careless with my ammunition supply, I peer out from behind the archway and shoot valuable bullets in Cato's direction every time the crowd parts and grants me better access to him.

Following suit, Cato turns and hides himself behind another golden arch across the courtyard. We exchange several firings before a familiar shock of blonde hair whirs past me and rolls over the hood of the car on the turntable.

Mellark, Katniss in tow, wastes no time before firing some haphazardous shots of his own toward Cato, who dodges each bullet with ease.

I watch him, eyes squeezed shut and gun pressed up to his lips as if in the middle of a silent prayer, turn with the car until he and Everdeen are in plain sight in Cato's line of fire. Katniss notices this slip up before Mellark does, however.

"Uh, Peeta…?"

"Don't worry, I've got this," he assures Katniss, despite his eyes still being shut. "Three…two…one…"

Mellark springs to his feet, eyes open, gun kicked back and ready — only to find that they're facing the wrong way. Katniss sighs, annoyed.

A bullet from Cato's gun grazes Mellark's arm cast.

"Jesus!" he shouts as he and Katniss leap off of the turntable and start for my hideout.

Everdeen fires several arrows as she runs, knocking out a few of Snow's men that have spotted her. She and Mellark make it under my arch and catch their breath behind a shiny Capitol Car.

"How'd you get down here? I thought I told you to go to the roof," I inquire to Mellark. He simply looks at me as he reloads his gun.

That's when I take stock of his soaking-wet hair and sopping clothes and put together that Mellark _was_ on the roof…and somehow ended up down here. But first, he made a pit stop in the pool.

No fucking way.

"Did you fall?"

"Yeah," he says, out of breath and as exasperated by the feat as I am.

"Jesus Christ, you kidding?"

Another bullet whizzes by, and Mellark seems to be at a loss for words when he turns his head to face me and misses it in the nick of time. I don't know if I can even call it luck at this point, these narrow avoidances of death. More bullets from Cato ricochet off of the arch as we stare at each other in disbelief.

"I think I'm invincible. It's the only thing that makes sense! I don't think I can die," Mellark concludes.

And given the fact that he's standing here and telling me this, and not _dead_ in a pool like he should be by all laws of logic, I have trouble finding flaw in his argument.

He hugs the side of the car as he makes his way around to the other end of the arch, Katniss hot on his heels.

That's when I take stock of the way his hand is clasping hers, their fingers intertwined and locked together. While their faces are flushed, their lips are bright red and just slightly swollen.

Way to grab your newfound life by the horns and yank, Mellark! I can't help the smile that breaks out on my face as I coyly eye the two of them. Mellark flushes in embarrassment as he infers what my smiling is about.

"Did you kiss her?"

Katniss speaks up, jumping out a little to shoot another arrow at another one of Snow's suits who jogs our way, hitting him in the shoulder and sending him straight down in howling pain.

"No, I kissed him," she retorts, treating making a move like a sport with her defenses flared.

"It's neither here nor there who kissed who first. Point is we made out and it was amazing," Peeta all but gloats, earning a jab in his ribcage from a much more modest Katniss. There's no denying the slight smile that graces her lips, however.

"Where's the tape?" I ask the happy couple. Katniss points with one of her arrows up at the room where Madge and the projector are.

"Up there. We just have to go and get it," she answers.

Our eyes travel simultaneously to Room 176. Just in time to watch a tall, curvy silhouette (undoubtedly Madge…I'd know that figure anywhere) yank the film from the projector. The wall where the video had reached it's literal climax dims. Madge starts to fumble with a pair of scissors — her intentions hellbent on destroying the evidence.

She's intercepted by a much smaller figure, who charges after dodging the pair of scissors that are thrown at her and lodge themselves in the wall. I recognize the long hair and the untucked shirt tail immediately, as does Katniss, as does Mellark.

"Prim!" we all shout.

Madge grabs Prim by the arm and tugs her away from the table with the projector, but Prim kicks her in the hip and sends Madge plummeting toward the floor.

Now, with the tape in its case and clutched in her hands, Prim stands in between an enraged Madge Undersee and the open hotel window.

Quickly, she turns toward the arch. Her words are aimed at Madge, but with the intention of reaching us, her message is crystal clear: "You want it? Go get it!"

Prim's shadow bends down and changes shape. Soon, we watch the tape come into view as it rolls out of the window and flies through the air.

Madge soon flies after it, an impassioned "No!" hanging in the air as she plummets. Her landing is rather graceless, as she falls face first into an overhang that covers outdoor seating for a courtyard restaurant. She attempts to escape, but just ends up getting tied up in the synthetic plastic awning.

It's the most unattractive I have ever seen her. Thank you, sweet schadenfreude.

The tape's metal container echoes as it bounces over Cato's arch and into the flaming car that he exploded earlier. All at once, the attention of everyone — me, Mellark, Katniss, her rebels, Snow, his men, Cato, Prim and Madge — is on one final destination.

Everyone springs into action.

"Cover me," Mellark tells us as he shoots while he bolts toward the car as if someone lit a fire under his ass.

We fall into our battle positions like a well-oiled machine — all three of our squeaky wheels finally whirring in sync with each other. Katniss releases the rest of the arrows in her sheath at Snow's bumbling guards. The ones that haven't been hired to throw themselves in front of arrows for the old man escort him off the premises to safety.

Meanwhile, I fire at Cato and distract him with a fake out of me charging for the tape while Mellark goes in for the steal. I crash right into Cato's rock-solid, sturdy frame, and our guns go flying, leaving us with no other option but hand-to-hand. Cato is quick to hit me directly where he wounded me. I scream in pain, but I hold onto him, fighting him off wherever I can get a punch in.

At the other turn table, Mellark winces in pain as he attempts to lift the piping hot metal case from the flames.

"Shit."

"Go! We've got this!" Katniss calls out to him over the sounds of men falling victim to her arrows. Mellark, tape now tucked under his arm, yelps out fearfully before he runs inside the hotel.

Katniss nails another one of Snow's guys when Cato breaks from my grasp, grabs his gun, and shoots the man to death. Katniss is knocked to the ground when the man collapses on top of her. This grants Cato a clear path to jump over them and chase after Mellark. Katniss and I soon follow after I help her get the dead body off of her.

Mellark's diving over tables in a banquet hall when Cato starts shooting from the middle of the flight of stairs leading down to the room. Once Katniss and I reach the top of the stairs, I fire one of my last few bullets at Cato. Like a Pavlovian response to the sound of gunshots, Cato ducks and the bullet hits the wall above his head. He sprints to the other end of the stairwell and keeps firing at Mellark.

Thinking on his feet, Mellark uses the metal case for the film as a makeshift shield as he backpedals though the maze of well-decorated tables and chairs.

But Katniss is the only one who sees the window he's heading for.

"PEETA, NO!"

She's too late. Cato reaches the bottom of the stairs and jumps from a table to the crystal chandelier hanging overhead — like a goddamn gymnast. He shoots again. Mellark puts the shield in front of his chest. The force sends him crashing through the window at full speed. Mellark's shocked expression is the last thing we can see before he disappears in an explosion of glass shards.

Cato loses his grip on the chandelier and falls, snapping a tabletop in two. While he's temporarily immobilized, Katniss urges me to follow her to the window Mellark just tumbled from.

The tape gets away from him, rolling down toward the circular drive where Snow and his two men are attempting to flee the scene. Mellark, arms and legs spread like the invincible superhuman he claims he is, lands smack dab in the middle of another glass ceiling and falls right through it.

Katniss' hand flies to her mouth, as she's still unused to these kinds of antics as the norm with how Mellark gets the job done.

"He'll be fine," I assure her off-handedly.

Mellark lands with a loud grunt atop Snow's escape limo. The film lands several feet down the drive and continues with its own escape route.

With another groan, Mellark starts slowly sliding off of the car. He's slammed against the street by Snow's limo door as it flies open, letting one of his men out to scurry toward the tape before it makes it to the highway.

Mellark, who is now undoubtedly seeing an entire galaxy of stars, is just about to start after him when a shot from behind us rings out, making Peeta jump and block himself with his hands down below.

The sound of a blood-curdling scream beside me causes me to jump. Cato, now wielding the leg of the table he had just demolished like a club, whacks Everdeen in the side and sends her plummeting through the broken glass ceilings toward the concrete.

Mellark, in another one of his miraculous moments of heroism, catches her. Katniss' eyes roll into the back of her head as she faints, going limp and unconscious in his arms. Mellark wavers from the impact, but for once tonight stays put on his own two feet.

Before he can finish either of them off, I lunge for Cato. The momentum sends him falling straight down, and we wrestle for dominance. It's hands versus a gun and a club on what little room is left on the overpass hanging over the ground.

The trained killer flips us over and traps me in a headlock, his gun pressing into one of the wounds he opened on my back from our previous altercation tonight. The vantage point gives me a clear view of Mellark.

Slinging Katniss' frail body over his shoulder, he hobbles after the guy and the tape. Another car filled with screaming party-goers looking to get the hell out of dodge drives right into him as he begins to cross the road, sending Katniss flying onto the hood of a parked car while he flips in the air and lands right on the back of Snow's man.

The tape continues to spiral out of everyone's grasp, but Snow's burly-looking muscle man grabs it before it can roll into the street. Mellark, meanwhile, latches onto the guy's waist and serves as dead weight to drag the other man down.

Once the tape is safe, I let Cato know I'm still kicking when I elbow him in the gut. The satisfying sound of the wind being knocked out of him replenishes me, and I manage to get a hold on him so that I'm punching him right in the spot I've made tender.

I flip him over my shoulder and let his back land hard on the strip of land we balance on.

As I take him down, my finger loops through a small metal ring. I hold my hand out, letting the key to the grenade dangle from my knuckle. Cato and I watch with silent dread as we come to the realization at the same time that we will be blown to bits up on this ledge.

I back myself up against the wall while he frantically begins to search himself when he gives up on the notion and uses the dwindling time frame to remove his jacket entirely.

With a grunt, Cato tosses his ticking time bomb of a jacket off of the ledge, where it flutters right over where Mellark now currently wrestles Snow's man on the ground, using his one good arm in vain to try and capture that footage.

Snow sends his other lackey out to finish the job, and just moments after his terrible shots miss Mellark and the other guy, Cato's jacket lands right on him.

Fire beats roses once again as the man is blown to smithereens in a flash of orange light.

While Cato recoups, he gives me enough time to calculate just the right angle to tackle him at. Just as the bomb goes off, I catapult from my end of the ledge and slam him to the other side.

He seems almost caught off guard by my attack, and this momentary slip up allows me to gain the upper hand.

I find myself gripping just a little tighter when I think of all the wrong in this world I never got to right: my father leaving, my brother running off with my fiancee, my life of loneliness, Marvel's taunting grin, my injured back, Madge's betrayal…it all comes to a head at this very moment.

The roar that rips from my throat is not me. It's ten years of anger I've kept at bay by pretending I was braver than I really am.

I seem to tap into some superhuman strength of my own as I lift the hitman off of the ground and hold him over the railing of the battered building. My hands are wrapped around his neck and cutting into his skin, and his face has just begun to go purple as he reaches up to try and break free. His legs twitch and dangle in thin air over the precipice of death.

I'm not _Farmer's Market Guy_. That's not me. I'm Gale Hawthorne. A low-life from Chicago who will never, ever find happiness. I'm not a good guy.

"Go ahead, kill me," Cato finally says, once he's nearly been extinguished of all life.

The mask he usually dons has been removed to reveal a man — a man who's just as scared to die as anyone else, and who was, at the end of the day, just following orders like the rest of us.

I _want_ to sympathize with him, I really do. But right now, he represents everything that is wrong with justice, with morality, with _me..._ I can't seem to shake it off.

"Do it," Cato urges. "I'm a dead man anyway, at this point…One of us has to die. It's what they want."

I'm about to take him up on the offer when a small, innocent voice chirps behind me, causing every train of thought in my head to come to a screeching halt.

"Mister Hawthorne! What are you doing?" Prim screeches over the sounds of the wind whipping through the air and screams below us. I sway and lose my footing, and Cato howls as he is wrenched further over the edge.

I want to tell her that I am doing the right thing. But my body has always known instinct better than my mind. My stomach drops and my heart accelerates at the very presence of Prim.

"Go away, Primrose," I say, keeping my eyes averted. She shouldn't have to watch this. She must already know by now that she was wrong about me…that I'm no good.

But the girl doesn't give up easily on the people she cares about.

"Hawthorne, stop! You don't have to kill him!"

Cato continues to claw at the hands clasped over his windpipe. One of his hands reaches out and grips my shoulder with everything he's got left. A final attempt at fighting me off.

And then, Prim pulls out the bigs guns.

"Mister Hawthorne, if you kill this man, I will never speak to you again."

When I finally allow myself to look at her, I am hit instantly with regret. She means business. Her blue eyes are stone cold serious with the threat that lingers in the windy air between us.

This man deserves the justice that is due. I know that. But I also know now that I don't have to be the only one serving that justice. I stumble backward and loosen my grip. Cato crumples to his knees, coughing and gasping for air.

"Congratulations, Buddy. You owe your life to a thirteen-year-old girl," I grumble as Cato clutches at the blue butterfly-wing bruises emerging on his neck.

Then, I knock him out with one swift blow to the jaw. It's enough to satisfy that animalistic pain I had been feeling earlier, I suppose. Now, the pain's just in the knuckles I am shaking out.

"Force of habit," I say to Prim, who simply rolls her eyes.

Prim's smile is tight-lipped, but sincere when our gazes meet again. We both know that what I have just done was the right thing.

She extends her hand to me, and I take it without any hesitance. If someone had offered me a hand just three days ago, I would have laughed in their face.

It's funny how people can change when they least expect it.

Hand in hand, Prim and I inch toward the edge of the railing and look out to the street.

He's limping, disheveled, scuffed up, and a little worse for wear. She clings to his side, and the hair that's unraveled from her trademark braid flows wildly in the wind. From this angle, she looks like a bird, ready to take flight. A Mockingjay.

They pause in the middle of the road as the cops (the real ones) arrive. Sirens permeate the once-still air and the familiar flicker of red and blue lights pours over the circle drive of the hotel.

Triumphantly, Mellark pulls the tape from behind his back and raises it above his head.

He looks at me, and I look at him. We did it. It wasn't easy…and it certainly wasn't always the right way to get it done…but we did it.

With his other hand, Mellark unwinds himself from Katniss and lifts his pinky finger to his younger sister. Prim laughs, happy tears rolling down her face, and raises her pinky in response to him.

Together, the four of us share in the well-deserved victory.

* * *

 **A/N: Hi there! Sorry it's been so long...school began and life immediately slipped away from me. But here is the next, most-action packed chapter of this fic. Hope you enjoyed it! One of my favorite comedic elements of this film was its constant addressing of action loopholes that keep protagonists alive, so I really enjoyed satirizing that here too!**

 **Just one more chapter and an epilogue to get to you guys! Please review and let me know what you think! Happy Fall to all!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	12. Eleven: That's The Way I Like It

**Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The Hunger Games_** **, nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film** ** _The Nice Guys._** **All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Chapter Eleven: That's The Way I Like It *~*~*~*  
One Week Later  
**

* * *

 ** _((Gale))_**

We arrive promptly at the Justice Building at nine o'clock for our final scheduled appointment with the outgoing Head of the Department.

His secretary, a woman named Antonia, is packing her things up at her desk when she tells us to have a seat in the waiting area, and that Snow will be with us shortly.

"This guy always creeped me out," Peeta remarks as we sit with our backs to the heavy door of Snow's office. "He just _looks_ like the kind of old man who'd willingly follow Stalin…"

It's an extreme thought, but I can't say I disagree with him on that sentiment.

After waiting for what feels like hours (although when I glance at the wall clock, only a few minutes have passed), impatience takes over and I rise from my chair to pace the corridor. Outside, a rebel protest rages on, and the young faces of those combatting smog twist around embittered screams against Snow and Capitol.

I go to the far wall and pluck a white rose from one of the beds adorning the windowsill.

"That's a fine choice, Mister Hawthorne," a hoarse voice bellows from the doorway, causing me to jump and nearly drop the rose. "Colors are lovely of course, but nothing says perfection like white."

Mellark and I whirl around to eye Snow, clad in a burgundy velvet suit as he strides toward us. The clinking of the chains on his handcuffs, and the two guards that remain on standby at the door, make the confrontation all a bit less threatening.

The propo exposed him for his fraudulent agreements with the Capitol Company, down to tampering with evidence to keep up his appearances as a prosecutor. By the time all of his investors and trusted officials either backed out or turned on him, he'd been found guilty of every charge the film his granddaughter made against him.

In other words, Coriolanus Snow is off to prison.

While an eyewitness hotel worker who saw him attack Beetee had Cato put away almost immediately after the fight, the news surrounding Snow's verdict came as a pleasant surprise to us all. He was guilty, the main citation for his crimes being evidenced in that porno. And soon, Capitol Vehicles and their CEO, Seneca Crane, will be tried. Snow will have spent months in jail at that point.

But we agreed that we couldn't let him go without some sense of closure. We needed answers. Why he cheated and corrupted his way to the top, why he was trying to kill his own grandchild, why he's a fucking asshole…things like that.

"We have many things to discuss, gentlemen," Snow says, his voice low and mocking as he barely glances at the golden watch clasped to his papery wrist. "But, given that I have to be at the state penitentiary in just a few minutes, I have a feeling your visit with me will be short. So let me be brief. First of all, since you failed to do your job, I will not be paying you for your services."

Beside me, Mellark guffaws.

"If you honestly think that's what we came here for, you can keep your dirty money," Mellark spits. Antonia goes to shush him, but Mellark flips her the bird.

Now that he knows he has nothing to lose by speaking candidly with us, Snow ignores Mellark's crude gesture and continues to speak.

"Furthermore, I wanted to let you both know that I do not regret the decisions I made to uphold what I believed to be fair government practice," he says, showing no signs of remorse for the many deaths that his signature caused to happen over the course of these past few weeks. "Even if it weren't for the disgraceful acts at the party last week, I would have conceded, made amends with Katniss…anyone could see that this little game was over by that point. My granddaughter isn't one to give up; I suppose I knew that all along. I must admit, the film was a masterful move on District Thirteen's part. It turned my cabinet completely against me."

A violent coughing spasm rises in his throat, and he struggles to reach into his robe pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his puffy lips.

"Cancer of the mouth," he says, finally drawing the white kerchief away. The haunting thought that this man will likely die in prison hangs in the air with this admission.

"However, gentlemen, it is with sincerity that I warn you not to revel in your victory for much longer. My failure, of course, was being so slow to grasp the greater consequence of the rebel actions. Katniss' little stunt with the viewing party was just one domino in the larger effect that is going to take place. But she was watching me, and I was watching her. No one was looking at the bigger picture."

"Bigger picture?" Mellark cuts in. "What do you mean?"

"Once I'm gone, they'll try to vote in a successor — most likely my longtime government rival, Alma Coin — and it may seem, given her policies, that she will make the changes to the environment that these youngsters so badly want. But, from my experience, the government is made up of fickle human beings who will do just about anything to stay in power. And corporations, such as Capitol, hold that power. Now that it has been compromised, they will do whatever it takes to _keep_ the power. You see, regardless of who takes this position after me will only perpetuate the cycle."

He's implying that all of our efforts are for nought, as the paying off of government officials big big corporations will always corrupt our system and disenfranchise the people, even after they've spoken out.

"Bullshit," I shock myself when I utter this denouncement aloud. He's essentially saying that justice doesn't exist, and I can't stand for it.

Snow's smile is an omniscient one. "Oh, Mister Hawthorne…I thought we agreed never to lie to each other."

With that, the guards flock to his sides and begin to escort him out of the building.

Mellark starts speaking, in very broken Russian, before he states something in English to seemingly no one in particular.

"The people who cast the votes decide nothing. The people who count the votes decide everything."

Snow's fluffy white eyebrows raise. "Excuse me, Mister Mellark?"

I clear my throat a little, while Mellark just smiles like a coy little bastard and rocks on the heels of his feet behind me.

"Oh, I believe he is comparing you to Joseph Stalin, Sir," I say matter-of-factly, my eyes shifting to Mellark as he sing-songs something else in his poorly-executed Russian accent.

One of the guards tells Snow that it's time. Mellark and I are thrilled to have gotten the last word.

The crowd outside erupts in cheers, whoops, and chants as we all watch Snow being shoved into a cop car from inside the Justice Building.

There's the sound of scuffling behind me. I'm shocked to find someone else being led off of the premises as well.

She's still wearing a fancy dress, which brings out the defeated color of her faded blue eyes and her silver restraints. Her loose blonde curls hang in limp ringlets around the shoulders that once exuded confidence.

Her coercion with her grandfather led to an unfavorable sentence on her behalf as well. I remember feeling sorry for her, as tears streamed down her porcelain face on my television screen, until I remember that those tears are her greatest weapon. The weapon she used to ensnare me to her mercy like a defenseless rabbit.

After Madge Undersee, I think that it's in my best interest to swear off of women for a little while.

"Nice dress," I say. I'm not gawking, like last time. I'm simply stating a fact. It is a nice dress. Shame she'll have to replace it for an unflattering prison jumpsuit soon enough.

This earns me a look of pure disdain from Madge.

"Well, I have to look good for when I go to prison, thanks to you," she hisses, a snake unhinging its jaw to release her poisonous, venomous words into my veins.

"You did this to yourself, Madge," I retort. "You ought to start taking responsibility for your own mistakes, since your precious Grandfather can't cover them up for you anymore."

Madge glowers. "Screw you."

I attempt to hold back my laughter, but Mellark can't contain his hysterical outburst. We laugh at her for a good while, until my cheeks are sore and my sides are burning. Wiping a tear from under my eye, I look at a now-confused-and-still-very-annoyed Madge with all of the pity in the world for the greatest unintentional set up of a joke I've ever heard.

"Screw me? Princess, you already have."

Madge growls and starts for my throat, but the officers holding onto her — I recognize one of them as Boggs — restrain her efforts.

"You worthless piece of scum…"

"Careful, Hawthorne," Mellark says tauntingly. "Don't look into her eyes. She might turn you to stone…and you're already hard enough of a person to deal with."

"Medusa?" I question his reference as Madge is dragged through the heavy door of Snow's quarters.

Mellark shrugs. "I've been reading a lot of Greek mythology lately…"

Another round of cheers goes up when the rebels watch a very resistant Madge Undersee be courted off to serve her sentence of solitude in the state prison.

Mellark and I exchange a satisfied look with each other, knowing that our job here is finally coming to an end. Side by side, we make our way out of the Justice Building to the sunny courtyard.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel good.

* * *

 ** _((Peeta))_**

From where she stands, with the sun bending off of the Justice Building's bell tower at just the right angle and her smile beaming and bright, my sister looks like an angel.

Calling out my name, she rushes up the stairs to greet me and Hawthorne. I note that her braid is identical to that of the woman trailing behind her. Their matching plaits catch in the sunlight as they bob toward us.

I take back what I said before. I wish I could freeze _this_ moment and live in it forever.

"I hope you found what you were looking for in there," Katniss says, her hands resting gently on each of Prim's shoulders. She didn't want to come in with us and see her grandfather and cousin off. I don't blame her.

Besides, the rally she organized out here is a big enough 'fuck you' to Snow and his conspirators, anyway.

"After Grandfather's arrest, some interesting information was delivered to me," she announces. "Since neither he nor Madge can control the family fortune from prison, I've been made sole proprietor. I would like for my first order of business would be to compensate the two of your for all of your help."

Without even waiting for Hawthorne's response, I throw up my hands in denial.

"No way. I'm not taking your money, Everdeen. My services were free of charge," I say earnestly. This garners a shocked stare from Prim and a grunt of agreement from Hawthorne.

"And we talked about this earlier, Everdeen," Hawthorne says, catching my attention. When were he and Katniss _talking_? "I just needed that one favor."

My eyebrows raise in question as I stare up at my tall counterpart. _What favor?_ my pressed expression asks him, but I am completely ignored, much to my vexation.

Katniss continues to try persuading us otherwise. "And that's been taken care of, but I would have done that for nothing. C'mon, guys. After everything you did for me, the least I can do is repay you."

"You can repay us by putting that money to good use," I tell her. I know the young philanthropist must have some charities in mind, places that could use the dough more than any of us could.

Two weeks ago, I would have been tripping her down the stairs to get even a slice of compensation for my work, and now, I'm willingly giving it away.

Prim smirks in approval of the gesture, but her eyes seem to glitter with something else I can't really decipher. Whatever she's trying to urge me to do or say is lost on me. I just gave away our ability to buy cheese from the nice part of the store, I don't know what else I can do.

Katniss finally accepts our polite refusal to take her money, putting her heavy wallet back into the pocket of her jeans. She gazes up from the concrete beneath her feet to us, and her eyes linger on me for just a second longer than they should.

"I guess I'll see you around?"

For some reason, I feel everyone looking at _me_ as Katniss awaits a response.

"Uh…yeah," is all I say, despite millions of other things that could have been better, smoother, more flirtatious, all of the above.

Hawthorne steps in where my words have failed me, reaching out to shake Katniss' hand as he jokes, "Try to avoid getting into trouble for a while if you can, Everdeen. We need a breather before you hatch your next great plan".

Katniss grins.

"I'll do the best I can," she says. Tossing one last unreadable look over her shoulder, she start back down the stairs to rejoin her protest group.

I'm wistfully watching her go, long braid flowing gracefully behind her swaying hips, when I feel something sharp nudging me in the side.

"Ow! What the hell was that for, Prim?"

"Are you serious?" Prim exclaims, withdrawing her elbow from my ribcage. "After all that, you're not going to ask her out? Idiot!"

"Prim," I groan, rubbing my side, "I really resent your tone."

"Stop changing the subject," she spews, edging me closer to the wall of the Justice Building as she reprimands me for my inaction. "She is a young, attractive, badass, _single_ woman who basically _gave you a window of opportunity_ to do something and you stood there like an idiot!"

"Stop calling me an idiot! I was flustered."

"You were an idiot," Hawthorne says, siding with Prim on the matter. Going off of my look, he continues, "She's clearly got it as bad for you as you do for her, so buck up and ask her out. It's not like she'll say no."

"Consider it your _compensation_ ," Prim says, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"I don't think either of you have the discretion to be doling out dating advice," I say, feeling incredibly cornered by the both of them right about now.

I haven't dated a girl…let alone talked to a girl, really, in almost seven years. Asking someone out is a concept so foreign to me I'm not sure I could even do it. It's always been about making money, doing my job, and keeping Prim alive. Dating was something that got pushed to the way way back a while ago.

But then _she_ happened. This conundrum of fire and quiet passion that continues to orbit around me and crash into me when I least expect it to — that conundrum being Katniss Everdeen. Sure, she kissed me at that party last week, but we were both so amped up on adrenaline I doubt she even considers it to be something real.

"Peeta," Prim says, her expression way too serious for a thirteen-year-old. "You're my brother, and I love you. But it's been seven years of you trying to put everyone else before you while you remained miserable, and I can't stand it any longer. If you don't ask Katniss Everdeen out on a date and make yourself happy for once, I will invite Bristel over every weekend until the day I go to college."

It's my sister's most compelling threat to date. I miss the good old days, when her biggest complaint with me was not being able to fix the cable box when her Saturday morning cartoons went fuzzy.

I look into the eyes of a girl I can hardly call little anymore. She grew up while my back was turned, and in my quest to be good enough for her, I failed to realize that all I had to do was turn around and see her for it to be enough.

She's forgiven me, for everything. It's time I do the same for myself.

"Hey, Katniss! Wait up!" Prim, looking way too pleased with herself, calls out at the top of her lungs without waiting for me to agree to anything.

Katniss turns just in time to watch my sister practically push me down the stairs while Hawthorne looks on and laughs.

I'm still teetering off balance when her hands find my shoulders and prop me up to face her. Her touch manages to set me on fire, igniting any dormant desires that have been pent up for seven years. Katniss is biting back a giggle, presumably at how flustered I must look right now.

"You don't really strike me as the rallying type, Detective. No offense," she observes, laughter permeating through her soft voice.

I roll my eyes, an involuntary playful gesture. "Well, to be fair, no one can get up on a soapbox quite like you can."

The smile she flashes for the briefest of moments is a jubilant one. Then she goes back to wiping her hands on the sides of her jeans and shifting her weight in between her feet.

"Well, since you're not here to join the protest, what did you want to tell me? Did Prim finally convince you to share your cheese bun recipe with me? She was being pretty stubborn about it, but I think I wore her down," Katniss asks with another, much more nervous-sounding laugh. She casts a look over my shoulder at where Prim does a victory dance at Gale's feet. The death glare I send her stops my sister dead in her tracks.

"Erm…something like that…" I stutter, turning back to Katniss. "She…uh…wanted me to — I mean, I wanted to ask you if…"

I groan and my eyes roll up to stare at the sky in quiet agony. Oh, God. This is painful. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she works up the nicest rejection possible, and I prep for the sting.

"I'd love to," she says finally, sparing me the agony of finishing my question and nearly knocking me off of my feet again. Those three little words sound eager, pleasant, and startlingly _believable_ as they roll off her tongue. "Friday night sound good? You can pick me up at around eight?"

"Sounds—yeah, that's…good," I choke out weakly. Hopefully, by Friday, I can refamiliarize myself with how coherent sentences are formed.

Katniss smiles, and then she leans forward to place a kiss on my cheek while I'm still sputtering. The blood from my spinning head rushes down my neck and up to the tips of my ears in a revealing bright pink blush.

"Thanks for being such a good guy, Peeta Mellark," she says, silver eyes sparkling in the afternoon light.

One of the protestors beckons her back to the huddle, and we part ways, stealing glances behind us and catching each other for it as we go.

I practically float up the stairs back to Prim and Gale, who wear matching grins.

"Shut up," I say, urging them to wipe those stupid looks off their faces before someone thinks they're suffering from a joint heat stroke. "Just take us home, Hawthorne."

For the past week, we've been living in Hawthorne's tiny one-man apartment over the bar, owned by the crotchety old guy who gives me a drunken run for his money. It's a temporary stay, since I've been spending my days house-hunting while Prim's out with friends, but we've all learned to make the adjustments.

Even Hawthorne, who shocked us both when he offered us lodging, seems to be used to our little picture of domesticity. Jingling his keys in his hands and putting on his suave sunglasses, Hawthorne looks vaguely like the man I first got sucker-punched by in the rental home. But he's different, somehow. The shadows and lines that made up his burdened scowls are nearly evaporated, and he seems lighter, happier almost.

It's a nice change.

"Have to make a quick detour first, if you don't mind," he says, leading Prim and I down the Justice Building as chants for the Mockingay linger behind.

When Prim asks him where we're going, Hawthorne tells her it's a surprise.

I tell him I hate surprises.

Hawthorne informs me that I might like this one.

He pulls down a familiar road, one that I've avoided on my route to the rental home for years, and it makes my stomach churn.

The abandoned lot sits barren atop the small sloping hill. What once stood as a bakery and a home, and turned into an ashy graveyard, is now nothing but a harmless patch of grass and dirt.

Surprisingly, nothing inside of me aches for a drink or a long vacation away from this spot. It has the adverse effect as I start to warm up, like an oven that's just been turned on, and I find myself smiling reverently at the place where I once loved and was loved in return by a baker, his two older sons, his youngest daughter, and even, on occasion, his wife.

It will always be home, I realize, no matter how far away I run from it.

And I finally feel at peace. That is, until Hawthorne slows down to park beside the chainlink fence and I spot the giant SOLD sign creaking in the wind at the center of the lot.

From the backseat, Prim stares at me with wide eyes. I had always told her I would earn the money to resurrect a place to live on this land…but even then I think we both knew it seemed like a farfetched dream.

Now, that dream is ruined.

"It's been sold," Prim whispers, crestfallen.

But she fails to notice Gale Hawthorne's eyes smiling up at her from the rearview mirror.

"Yeah, to Katniss Everdeen. With a lease under both of your names," he says.

Prim's teary eyes whip up from her lap to stare, mouth agape, at Hawthorne. I assume that I am mirroring her stunned expression, because he looks between the two of us and bursts into laughter.

"No way," Prim declares.

"Yeah way," Hawthorne says, mimicking her teenage intonation of the phrase and subverting it.

Prim squeals with delight and rushes out of the car, kicking up red, dusty dirt as she makes up her own euphoric dance steps, moving joyously throughout the field.

But I can't stop staring at him from the passenger's seat.

This was the favor he called in.

Hawthorne claps one of his broad hands on my shoulder, shaking me back to life. "Construction starts tomorrow, so I suggest you draw up some blueprints."

"Hawthorne…" I start, but he holds up the hand that's been resting on the steering wheel to stop me from saying that we can't accept this gift.

"Where I come from, in that little shithole in Chicago, we were taught to give back to the people who give to us," he says simply, training his gaze over the lenses of his sunglasses to watch Prim.

"I didn't give you anything," I say, scoffing a little. "Maybe a migraine or two, but…"

"You gave me something. You might not have known it at the time, but you did."

And that's when it clicks. The man's spent his entire life choosing to be alone because he thought no one else wanted him around. Everyone he's ever cared about in his life has left him or hurt him in some way.

Except for me and my sister. We gave him loyalty and companionship, and in return, he gave us the second chance we needed.

It's more than repayment…it's luck. Luck that our paths crossed, luck that we joined forces on this case, and luck that we could be exactly what the other one needed in our lives.

Guess the odds were in my favor all along. It just took getting some sense literally being beaten into me to realize it.

"So…we're friends now?"

He knows exactly what I'm trying to probe him for and sighs lightly, "I think it's safe to say that neither of us are very mushy guys — so without getting too into it, yeah, we're friends."

The sun begins to set behind the lot that will become our new bakery and home, a brilliant blend of pinks and blues streaked across an orange sky. Dusks like these are my favorite, sunsets that look as if someone had taken a paintbrush and colored in the sky. Maybe, from a new bedroom window, I can try to recreate this image.

"I guess I could get used to that," I say.

Hawthorne laughs, silently taking in the sunset as he leans back in the driver's seat beside me.

"Me too, Mellark."

* * *

 **A/N: So in the spirit of Thanksgiving and not having posted for a while, here is the final update before the epilogue! I hope you enjoyed everything! I'd be ever so grateful for your thoughts in a review!**

 **Thank you! Have a happy holiday!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


	13. Epilogue: Love and Happiness

**Disclaimer: I do not own** ** _The Hunger Games_** **, nor do I own the material that this fiction is based off of, the film** ** _The Nice Guys._** **All content belongs to its rightful owners, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
**

* * *

 ***~*~*~* Epilogue: Love And Happiness *~*~*~*  
** **Panem, California - 1978**

* * *

 _Old Mr. Kringle is soon gonna jingle  
_ _The bells that'll tingle all your troubles away  
_ _Everybody's waiting for the man with the bag  
_ _'Cause Christmas is coming again_

Peeta Mellark parks in his old space at Greasy Sae's from his days in which he used to be a frequent customer of the bar. He still visits from time to time, to catch up with the other regulars that haven't quite figured out their escape yet, and to sneak the occasional cheap glass of Scotch. But today, he's here under entirely different circumstances.

It took an hour longer than anticipated to get here. Traffic is bad enough as it is, but when the holiday rolls around, Peeta swears people forget how to drive. He thinks he hates this time of year, when everyone's starry-eyed and Christmas carols are the only things on the radio and there's fake snow _everywhere…_ but he knows that he's kidding himself if he thinks that even he is immune to that little extra pep in his step come December.

The bar is adorned with seasonal decor. A Christmas tree lights up the room in the back corner, tissue-paper angels hang among the Sae's usual Central American decor, and he nearly walks right into the low-hanging tinsel in the doorway.

His immediate instinct is to wrestle with it. This only results in getting himself even more entangled in the shiny shit, before a familiar gruff voice tells him to stop messing around under the mistletoe before Sae comes over and kisses him.

"I'll take my chances," Peeta tells Gale as he joins him at the bar. "I hear Sae uses a lot of tongue."

This statement has the exact effect Peeta hoped it would have on Gale. Gale's usually hard-set face contorts in revulsion at the thought of the old woman Frenching Mellark. Peeta snorts, leans over to the bartender, and orders his usual.

Gale takes a solemn drag from his cigar before he blows the smoke and his breath out with a long, heaving sigh.

"You see the TV this morning?" he asks Peeta, switching from his cigar to the neck of his beer bottle.

Peeta straightens out his collar and mutters, "Yeah, I saw it."

The bartender hands Peeta his Scotch, and with the way Hawthorne sourly stews over the new broadcast that aired this morning, Peeta imagines he's going to need to down the whole glass in one fell swoop.

"A year-long trial…and they're gonna let the car company off. Scot-free. 'Not enough evidence of collusion', they're saying."

"I heard," Peeta overlaps the end of Hawthorne's embittered statement with his own. His lips are pursed around his cigarette as he lights one up in honor of revisiting his former vices in the bar, as he has been doing with Hawthorne twice a month for the past year.

This deal was the closest he could get to sobering up. It wasn't easy, abandoning old habits and going through the withdrawal of the comfort he once sought out in drinks and smokes, but he's managed to figure out other ways to distract himself.

Gale grunts and takes another swig of beer. He had become impressively good at practicing equanimity, and was going for a year-long streak of calm, even-temperedness when the news about Capitol caused him to punch a hole in the wall this morning. He figures he can fill in the damned thing if he gets to the hardware store this afternoon — an early Christmas present to Haymitch. Wincing, he absentmindedly starts to massage his bruised knuckles. He's not as spry and young as he once was, and he's getting tired of throwing punches, but that hasn't seemed to degrade his mission to right the world of its wrongs.

What happened in that court room wasn't justice, it was corruption. And Gale and Peeta feel like they may be two of the only people in the country to know it.

"Despicable. That Coin woman just sat there and let it happen, too. The sun went up, the sun went down…nothing changed," Hawthorne grumbles. "Snow was right."

Mellark extinguishes his cigarette and shrugs.

"Look, they got away with it. Big surprise. People are stupid, but they're not _that_ stupid," Peeta begins, drawing out his hypothesis. "Five years, max. That's how long I give it before we're all riding around in Japanese-made electric cars…or hovercrafts. Mark my words."

Hawthorne has a good chuckle at that one. Leave it to Mellark to stretch the truth all while being painfully honest about it, he thinks humorously. Capitol may have won the case, but it was obvious to the two men following the trial that the whole thing had been drawn out to keep the attention on the company, keeping it alive for as long as possible before the overseas corporations start to dominate the automotive market.

It's all a game in the world of big business.

Peeta glances over at his friend, noting how Hawthorne moves just a little slower than normal, his feeling of defeat accounting for the sloth-like behavior.

"Hawthorne, hey, watch this," Peeta pipes up, waving a hand in the face of his friend. "You ever seen the Bad Breath Tie? Watch."

Peeta lifts his tie up and breathes on the end, using his thumb to keep it standing erect. He then has Hawthorne repeat the gesture, but this time crumbles the tie in his fist by pulling his thumb down his palm.

This has Hawthorne in stitches. It's just mindlessly dumb enough to make him forget about all of the trouble in his head at the moment. He's always been grateful to Peeta for reminding him to lighten up once in a while.

"Works every time," Mellark says, a knowing smirk painted on his lips and spreading across his freckled cheeks. "Kills Prim."

Gale smiles, chuckling a little at the thought of Prim rolling around and clutching her sides at one of her brother's infamously corny jokes. He appreciates that about her — a sense of humor so simple that it's innocent.

"Well, listen, Hawthorne. I know it's shitty, but look at it this way: it's finally over. That's gotta feel good," Peeta offers, putting out his cigarette.

With three beers and cigar smoke piled up on top of his disappointment like a filmy layer of smog rising within him, Gale decides that he doesn't feel as good as both he and Mellark would probably want him to.

Sniffing, he lies and says, "I feel great."

But Peeta sees right through that. He knows a thing or two about drinking to forget, and he knows more than a thing or two about how Gale Hawthorne and his suppression function.

"You know, nobody got hurt," Mellark supplies, which results in a look of absolute skepticism from his friend.

"People got hurt," Hawthorne retorts.

"I'm saying I think that they died quickly, though, so I don't think that they got _hurt_ ," Peeta quickly elaborates, doing little to convince Gale to buck up.

Peeta sighs, and Gale echoes the gesture with a deep exhale of his own. No matter how they try to paint the picture of the first case they solved together a year and half ago, there will always be more gray matter bleeding together from the seemingly clear cut black and white than they could ever hope to come to a real conclusion on.

When he jams his hands into his pockets in search for his lighter to begin smoking another cigarette, Peeta remembers what he had called Hawthorne up to show him and excitedly tugs on his sleeve.

"Look at this," he says, spreading the template he had sketched last month out on the bar counter. "Printed out a few dozen of these suckers yesterday."

Hawthorne rubs his thumb over the slightly raised ink. Peeta has sketched each of their faces from memory, even down to his own quirky, upturned half-smile and Hawthorne's angled jaw.

"Sorry you look…sick…?" Peeta says, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment as he takes a look at the drawing he has done in a side-by-side comparison to the living thing sitting in front of him.

Hawthorne, however, laughs in amusement as he cocks his head and holds the photo up to his eye level.

"Jesus, I look like I'm about to vomit."

"Well, I was going for the scowl. It isn't false advertising, technically. Had Katniss write up the blurb for us. Check it out."

Eyes scanning the words under the drawing, he cites, _"Missing someone? Looking for justice? Need a couple of good guys to do an honest man's work? The Allies Agency: Our trained investigators specialize in closing cases of all types. Twenty-four hour service available. Offices located in Panem, California. For more information, call the number below."_

"Pretty impressive, Everdeen," Gale muses, swaying a little as he leans back to show Mellark how pleased he is with the work. "I like it."

Peeta beams at him. "Glad to have your approval. Because Prim's already started sneaking them into people's boxes at the bakery."

"How is Prim, by the way?"

Peeta grimaces in annoyance, but there's a lightness to the gesture that clues Gale into the fact that this is all meant in jest.

"She's still loud."

No longer sulking, Gale tosses his head back and barks out a good, solid laugh at this anecdote from Peeta. At fourteen, Primrose Mellark continues to be a light in an otherwise dark world. She's insisted on working for the agency in any way she can, between shifts at the bakery and her busy eighth grade schedule, and while Peeta has told her repeatedly that she can't go into the force until she's older, Prim still manages to work her stubborn, insistent touch on the team in any sleuthing way she can manage.

Hawthorne then asks Peeta how his wife is doing.

Peeta rolls his eyes.

"She's _louder_."

Unlike every other aspect of their relationship — Gale's witnessed way too many of their heated spats and unfortunately walked in on the just as heated aftermath once — Peeta and Katniss' elopement was small, quiet, and without any spectacle. With Gale and Prim as their only witnesses, the two were married in a quaint, but lovely cabin ceremony outside of Panem. The headline news that Katniss had gotten hitched to a P.I. in secret didn't emerge until she was off on her honeymoon one week later. Much to the chagrin of her family and the joy of Katniss, she continued to live up the expectation of being the family's disgrace.

Katniss and Peeta were never a pair of people who liked to live their lives _conventionally_.

Gale snickers. Even after several weeks of being happily married, he's glad to hear that Katniss Everdeen — now Katniss Everdeen-Mellark — hasn't hung up her picket signs and sheath of arrows just yet. The girl has a world to change, after all…she can't afford to be slowed down.

"You are horribly outnumbered in that big new house," Gale informs Peeta of what he is already reminded of every day.

Peeta rolls his eyes at the thought of every braid he's had to plait, every television program he's lost out on watching, and every time he's been told he 'just doesn't understand'. He shakes his head and downs a long sip of Scotch, bitterness laced into his every move. Gale watches on with quiet amusement.

"Katniss says girls run in her family, you know, should we decide to procreate. Basically, I'm doomed," Mellark whines, burying his head in the cradle of his arms on the counter.

Although he bemoans his 'rotten' luck, Gale knows that this is the happiest his partner has ever been. After all he and Prim have been through, they finally have a family again. Hawthorne's not too sure if there's even enough of Mellark left to wrap around his future daughters' fingers, given how devoted he already is to his sister and his wife.

Disregarding the historic Primrose example, Gale sees millions of ways in which the man beside him sneakily cares for the people he loves. He's always doing little things for Katniss, especially when he knows she won't notice. Even Gale is fed, visited, and generally checked up on twice every month at this bar.

Gale is certain that Peeta Mellark would make a very good father.

Breaking his partner's train of thought, Peeta pushes the copy of their flier toward Hawthorne.

"Want to take this back to the apartment? Show Johanna?"

Gale groans, remembering the hole in the wall. Former porn-star-turned-rebel Johanna Mason moved into his apartment to be closer to the diner she worked at while she took night classes and, although she wouldn't admit it, the man she was seeing —incidentally, that man was Gale Hawthorne.

After much convincing on Katniss' behalf, but the two begrudgingly went on a date a little over eight months ago. It didn't take them very long to discover that they connected very well, both physically and emotionally. Sometimes, Gale thinks she may be the scariest person he knows, and that's saying a lot, coming from him.

But although she could probably take him in a fight, he knows that when he comes home to the safety and security of her embrace each day that she's worth every failed relationship that has come before her. Johanna's made it clear that she isn't leaving him any time soon, and Gale has no intention of letting her go.

Now he knows he's got to run to the hardware store after this to fix the gaping hole in the wall, because he has no desire to explain how it got there to his terrifying girlfriend.

"Yeah, she's bound to know people who could use our services," Gale responds with a chuckle, folding the paper neatly into quarters and tucking it into his breast pocket. "But I'm sure she'll chew my ear off about it. She's been lashing out lately, probably because she's nervous for the trip."

He's bringing her to Chicago to meet his Ma and Posy next week for the holidays. Given how many times he had brushed death in his last case, Gale decided to stop sending his mother signed cards with checks in them and actually call her, much to her surprise.

Gale goes home on holidays now. He sees his little sister — who really isn't so little anymore, as she has begun her search for colleges. He helps his Ma cook and clean. He even manages to have civil discussions with his brothers.

He never thought he'd be that guy. The one he abandoned when he refused to take over the role his father left for him. But every time he comes back to California, Mellark manages to comment on how being a family man 'suits him', and Gale manages to crack a smile.

Peeta shrugs. "Hey, if your mom finds that we need to go out to Chicago, I wouldn't mind a vacation to the Windy City…"

"Let's stay local for now, Mellark. Can't get ahead of ourselves."

The bartender brings them another round. On the house, from Sae.

"Well, we've already got our first case," Peeta informs Gale, thinking back to how ecstatic he was when he returned from his honeymoon to find his answering machine blinking. "Old lady in Glendale, thinks her husband is cheating on her with Fred Rogers."

"Of the kids' show? Mister Rogers?"

Mellark shrugs, "Or it could be an actual friendly neighbor coincidentally named Mister Fred Rogers. Jury's still out on that one. Husband's eighty-two, though, so this case is very time sensitive."

"It's amazing," Hawthorne mutters, nostalgic laughter tumbling from his lips. "Two people can go from exposing a national corrupt government scam to _this."_

Mellark nods in understanding. It's a drastic change, one that Gale isn't used to quite yet. Even Peeta, who dabbled in the art of placating the elderly long before his life changed last year, had some trouble with the thought of readjusting.

They each think back to where they were over a year ago, sipping milkshakes, dodging murderers, and feeling completely inadequate at as people and professionals. The case with Capitol's catalytic converter and the smog, although having left a bitter taste in their mouths with the outcome, is what they owe everything to.

But so much of their young lives have already been lived. Perhaps it's time to start slowing down and leaving the wild chases, shootouts, and falling off of high surfaces to some other detectives.

"What do you say, Hawthorne?"

He pauses to mull over the very serious thought, but his answer feels obvious. His job description has changed, _he's_ changed, and he's finally thinking he may be okay with that.

With the look that's mirrored in his partner's eyes, Gale knows that Peeta feels the same way.

Lifting his beer bottle toward the smoggy sky above, Gale voices his agreement simply by stating, "To the birds."

Mellark has a good laugh at the allusion and raises his own glass.

"It's a twisted game we're playing with justice, Hawthorne."

Peeta tilts his glass toward Gale's beer bottle, and as the two men toast to their good fortune, their glasses clinking as they join together, they share a knowing laugh.

"That's true," Gale says, smirking. "But there are much worse games to play."

* * *

 **A/N: The end! I hope you enjoyed this small, but extremely fun endeavor as much as I did. Please review, and be on the lookout for future projects! Happy Holidays to all!**

 **-ILoVeWicked**


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